LUCENT
by cupcakeriot
Summary: There is a butterfly, a glowing necklace, and monsters made of shadows. Do other girls have these problems, or is she just extraordinarily unlucky? The only normal thing is the difficult boy in her life - but he's keeping secrets, too. It seems like everyone is keeping secrets these days...especially her.
1. Preface

**If you're reading this, then you should know a few things: yes, this is original fiction, yes, I am aware it should probably be on FictionPress, no, I won't be moving it there, and yes, this is a re-write of the first version I was working on so all the chapters are being replaced! Also relevant is the fact that this story is also being crossposted on Facebook under The Coterie group, and I'm only updating it here for A., the ease of readers and B., because I am a weak, weak girl and I crave feedback.**

 **Anyway, onward with this thing!  
**

* * *

 **preface**

Abbott stands on the sidewalk, hands clasped in front of his body, and watches as the girl leaves the house in a hurry. Within moments, Abbott is certain that the Guild is right about the girl being the one they have been looking for. She certainly has the right look about her and he knows, from studying the dossier the elder Guardians put together, that she meets all the requirements a Gatekeeper should possess. Now there is only the matter of convincing her, a task which falls on Abbott's shoulders.

As the girl rushes down the steep hill toward her school, Abbott keeps pace with her on the opposite side of the street, mindful to remain out of her line of sight. Other pedestrians avoid him without any effort on his part; he is not quite the same as other people, not wholly part of this world, and it means that he can pass more or less unencumbered as they do not _see_ him. Very few people can, actually, except for other Guardians and members of the Guild and, of course, the Gatekeepers themselves.

Even Gatekeepers who do not yet know about the Gates.

Mustering his resolve, Abbott takes care to place himself directly in the girl's path, crossing the street to place himself in her way. Although he is disciplined for this task, he is not so prepared to come face-to-face with a Gatekeeper, who are rare enough that Abbott's own mentor had only met one _once_ in sixty years of being a Guardian. And that Gatekeeper did not survive very long at all.

Abbott had not anticipated the way he would feel – the mingling sense of wonderment and dread – when confronted with a Gatekeeper. In particular, it is the girl's eyes that have him muddled. They are almond-shaped, a clean, pale green with a glittering quality that is at once both innocent and ancient, full of hidden truths of the universe. The eyes of someone who has never entertained an ounce of cruelty. Abbott has heard that eyes are the windows of the soul. Considering the nature of Gatekeepers and what was required of _this_ Gatekeeper in particular, he thinks it is a good thing that these eyes are, above all else, kind.

Only a kind soul, a pure heart, could close the Gate that would soon open.

"Oh!" She stops short before she runs into him, then offers an apologetic smile. "Excuse me. I didn't see you there."

"Don't be scared," he warns without preamble, an incongruous sentiment considering he's just stopped her from leaving. The girl frowns at him, perhaps in confusion, and Abbott feels confident to press onward. "I just need to speak with you for a moment."

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag, the first sign of upset he can detect. "I'm sorry," she says politely, preparing to sidle around him. "You must be mistaking me for someone else. I don't know you –"

"I have not made a mistake," he interrupts. Abbott pauses, wondering how best to deliver the news that will change this girl's life. If it were him in her position, Abbott would prefer that his informant start from the beginning. In this case, the beginning is the information in the dossier that he has memorize. "You are Hana Akimoto-Thornton, daughter of Army Colonel Daniel Thornton and the late artist Kikyo Thornton nee Akimoto, a third year student of St. Agnes Preparatory in San Francisco," he recites dutifully. "You currently live with your grandparents, Kenji and Satomi Akimoto, in the Cathedral Hill neighborhood-"

"How do you _know_ all of that? Who are you?" she demands, visibly uncomfortable. She takes a cautious step away from Abbott and shakes her head, reaching for something in the pocket of her blazer. "No, never mind. I'm calling the police-"

He frowns in genuine confusion. He does not understand her negative reaction. Had he taken the wrong approach? Perhaps. Abbott forgets that this Gatekeeper must think herself fully human and that humans think in peculiar patterns. "You are afraid. I have told you already that you need not be scared of me, and yet you are," he says reflectively. It is a moment before comprehension dawns, and he hastens to correct his mistake. "Of course. It's because I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Abbott, a Guardian of the Gates, and it is imperative that we speak about your destiny…"

Abbott falls silent. The Gatekeeper does not appear comforted by what he considers a perfectly adequate introduction. In fact, as he watches her reaction carefully, he notices that she looks increasingly alarmed, still putting distance between them, still reaching into her pocket with a nervous hand. He is reminded that, Gatekeeper or not, she is still a child by the standards of humans – and he seems to be frightening her.

Abbott sighs in resignation. He needs to rethink his strategy, as clearly this approach has failed. "Another time, then," he says with a shallow bow. "Be careful, Hana, for you are yet unprotected."

And then, Abbott allows his body to shift through a dimensional rift by utilizing a nearby window projecting his reflection, a talent all Guardians are bestowed to better protect their charges. He will have to watch over the Gatekeeper in this way until she is ready to hear the truth, whenever that may be. Sooner rather than later, he hopes. The matter really cannot be delayed.

The Gatekeeper blinks in confusion at the space where Abbott had stood, slowly relaxing her shoulders when he does not appear before her again. That is a good sign, he decides. It shows good instincts. Even if disseminating the vital information he had about her destiny had failed, at least Abbott has learned that the girl _did_ have a Gatekeeper's keen instincts. A positive sign to be sure.

"Hey. You alright, princess?"

Abbott's eyes drift away from the Gatekeeper and fall onto her new, dark-haired companion with some interest. It is a boy, likely the same age as the Gatekeeper. The energies around him are a vivid temerity – oddly potent – and an exact antithesis to the decorous calm waters of the Gatekeeper, and yet there is a clear mingling of their energies that gives Abbott pause. It is _interesting_ that the Gatekeeper is in contact with a well-matched opposite. Such things are omens worth considering.

But an omen to what? Abbott does not know.

"Logan," says the Gatekeeper with some surprise.

The boy rolls his eyes. "Don't sound so shocked," he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a scowl. "Did I see some guy bothering you?"

Abbott stops breathing.

"I…No…" The Gatekeeper shakes her head and looks away with a delicate shrug, not speaking any further for some curious reason.

The boy watches her shrewdly, then heaves a loud sigh, dropping his head back to glare up at the sky. "Alright, let's go," he says shortly, jerking his chin to the side.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Try to keep up, princess. We're walking to school," the boy declares with a smile bordering on condescending. "Just because you've got your head in the clouds-"

"I do _not_ have my head in the clouds, Logan Brandt!"

The boy scoffs and makes a sharp retort that inspires the Gatekeeper to march off with a huff. The boy goes to follow, but then stops in front of the window in which Abbott has hidden himself; he stares into the glass with hard, brilliant blue eyes. Abbott is careful not to move until the boy turns around to follow after the Gatekeeper with a long stride.

Abbott releases a slow breath.

The boy had seen him talking with the Gatekeeper, something which should be impossible – unless, of course, the boy is not wholly human, either. This, paired with the vibrancy of the boy's energies, makes compelling evidence for a complication that neither Abbott nor any of the others in the Guild had foreseen.

The Gatekeeper already has a Guardian.

 _This is certainly going to change things_ , Abbott thinks pensively.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, here it is. Original story with original characters, for everyone who said they'd read whatever I wrote. Consider this the thrown gauntlet. Are you up for the task?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	2. one

**one**

Sunlight shines beyond her closed eyes, tinting her eyelids bright orange-red as she tilts her face up to soak up every last ray of the seldom seen October morning sun. The entire month has been horrendously foggy, even for the Bay Area, and Hana has missed seeing the sunrise breaking over the distant steel outline of the Golden Gate Bridge. She smiles up at the sky, feeling cleansed and re-energized and ready to start her day on a positive note.

Such serenity doesn't last for long. Hana flinches, wrenching her eyes open when a loud string of angry, blue-tongued curses rises into the air from next door. Her mouth pulls into a bee-stung moue of disappointment as she leans over the railing of her terrace, which faces over the backyard and affords her a birds-eye view of the properties on either side of her grandparent's house. Unerringly, her gaze lands on the shed in her neighbor's yard where the source of the ruckus originates; the swearing is accompanied by a crash that sounds like clanging cymbals and a few dense thuds.

Hana sighs lightly. _Logan's in a mood again_ , she thinks, propping her chin on her folded arms. Logan Brandt's _moods_ are infamous as far as Hana is concerned. Being a neighbor and a classmate, she's had more than a little exposure to the landslide bouts of frustration Logan is in a habit of expressing. If a single word could describe a person, then Logan's word would be _difficult_. He's a real jerk, sometimes, but on the rare occasion, he can be something that _resembles_ nice, which is why Hana usually feels more empathy for Logan than anything else.

Everyone deserves forgiveness – even grouches who insist on calling her a princess.

Hana is still on her terrace, lost in thought and basking in the morning sunlight, when Logan stomps out of the shed, slamming the door behind him. She remembers that she's looking in his direction the exact moment that he glances up. Hana bites her lip, sliding her eyes away and making an effort to pretend like she hasn't just heard his tantrum, but she's guilty and they both know it.

Logan glowers, and while he is too far away to tell, she imagines that his blue eyes are as cold as chips of ice. "Enjoy the show?"

"Logan…"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you eavesdropping is rude, _princess_?"

Hana bristles, her cheeks burning, and says defensively, "Oh, right, because I _wanted_ to hear all that first thing in the morning."

Logan curls his lip and mutters something under his breath. Probably something disparaging about Hana, if she had to guess. He tromps away, going back into his house, without saying anything further and Hana closes her eyes briefly. This bickering always happens with her and Logan. Hana rarely loses her temper, but something about Logan makes it _so easy_ to release the polite hold of her tongue – and she resents it because Hana thinks of herself as a _nice_ person, save for one glaring exception.

Well. Two, if she counts that incident back in September. Mostly, she's written that entire ordeal off as a fluke, though. Maybe that guy was an actor, or something, and was trying to practice improvisation. It's entirely possible. San Francisco attracts those kind of eccentric types like honey bees to flowers. Better an oddball actor than a stalker, in any case.

Below, in her room, the second alarm on her phone sounds off. Hana starts, her eyes widening in dismay as she realizes that she has spent _far_ too long on the terrace and now she is behind on her meticulous morning ablutions. She hurries to the trapdoor on the terrace and climbs down the vertical steps, pulling the door shut behind her with a faint squeak of hinges, and then rushes right into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, and deftly weaves her long, dark hair into a loose side plait before snagging the uniform hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Oxford white shirt, pleated gray-and-green plaid skirt, cardigan with the St. Agnes crest over the heart, and tall white socks settled below her knee. Hana fusses with the verdant continental cross tie for a moment, abandons the notion that she'll ever be satisfied with the way the button sits in the center, and then reaches for the wicker basket holding her make-up. _Just the basics_ , she decides after her phone dings with a third-warning alarm. With a steady hand, she tight-lines her upper lid in a deep, nutty brown, coats her eyelashes in mascara, smooths on tinted moisturizer, and slicks on a subtle lipstick just a shade darker than her natural tone. Hana leans back from the mirror, practicing an easy smile as she straightens the lines of her uniform and tucks away any flyaway hairs.

Noticing a fleck of mascara has fallen to the top of her cheek, Hana huffs impatiently and leans into the mirror again, easily wiping the little imperfection away. And that is when something decidedly _odd_ happens – because in the mirror, just for a second, Hana _swears_ she can see two golden eyes peering back at her.

Hana gasps and flinches backward, narrowly avoiding knocking over the cleansers and moisturizers and various baskets off of the bathroom counter. Her hand presses over her heart, which is beating wildly, and she tries to regain her breath. And her wits.

Because there isn't anything in the mirror now, except for her own reflection – a moon-pale face, hair as dark and shiny as a Black Forest calla lily, and eyes of the same shade and clarity as peridot. Nothing more, nothing less.

Whatever she thought she saw? Just a trick of the light.

It's just… _impossible_ for it to be anything else.

Right? Right.

Hana does her best to put her teeny, tiny lapse in sanity behind her. She determinedly embraces the rest of the morning, still making up for the minutes she lost by basking in the sunlight. She helps herself to a slice of _shokupan_ toast with strawberry jam and vanilla bean black tea; she chats with her grandmother about extracurricular plans for the week, of which Hana has quite a few; she busses a kiss to her grandfather's cheek and steals a berry from his plate. At the front door, Hana trades her house slippers for her school shoes, a lovely pair of saddle oxfords, and says her habitual greeting to their neighbor, Mrs. Lowell, who always seems to be looking for her cat. Hana walks to school, treading the steep San Francisco hills, and eventually finds herself roped into conversation with friends vying for input on the latest celebrity gossip.

It is a _normal_ morning. Totally average. Comfortably predictable, just the way most days always are.

In fact, the rest of the day is normal, and so is the day after that. Hana goes to school and takes tests and splits her afterschool time between club responsibilities, community service, and continuing lessons in traditional Japanese cooking with her grandmother. She doesn't see any more tricks of the light and she doesn't lose herself in enjoying rare morning sun. Everything is as exactly as it should be.

And that, it turns out, lulls Hana into a false sense of security.

It isn't until the Friday of that week that it happens again – that the concept of _normal_ slowly begins to unravel in Hana's life. And it all begins right when Hana least expects it.

"I can't believe this. I really can't believe this."

At the sound of Sophie Laurel's lament, Hana pushes her own test away with her forefinger, leans toward the desk next to hers, and peers at the grade her best friend is currently agonizing over. She zeroes in on the _92_ written in red ink and suppresses a sigh. Trust Sophie to find fault in a test that was probably at the top of the curve for most of the junior class; at the very least, Sophie's grade is three entire letter grades higher than Hana's. Still, knowing how Sophie feels about her GPA, she can somewhat understand the disappointment.

"An A- is _great,_ Soph, it really is," she says consolingly, speaking softly to not draw attention. Granted, she and Sophie are sitting in the middle of the room and Ms. Gervais is busy preparing for the next class, which means that nobody is _really_ paying them any attention. Behind her, Hana can clearly hear a few of the sport-minded among them talking about some game – football, maybe – that is coming up, and at the front of the classroom, a few teens are already talking about lunch, which isn't even for another hour. None of their classmates are paying a lick of attention to Sophie's impending meltdown – and Hana prefers it that way.

"It should be an _A_ ," Sophie mumbles dejectedly. She flips through the pages of the test and frowns at one of the questions she answered incorrectly. "I forgot to factor the cube. Ugh. What a stupid mistake…"

Hana blinks, glancing at her own test in confusion. "There were cubes in the test? Isn't algebra hard enough with all these _letters_ without involving shapes, too?"

"Of course there were. You can hardly solve radical relationships without…" Sophie trails off then, as if hearing herself or realizing _who_ she is talking to, and smiles sheepishly. "I was freaking out, wasn't I?"

"Just a little."

Sophie hums. Her graded test finds its way in the highly-organized binder she uses for this class period, surely to be used as study material for future tests. Sophie hugs the binder to her chest. "What did you get?"

Hana purses her lips. "You don't want to know."

"I do," Sophie insists. But when Hana tilts her paper to allow Sophie to see the _barely_ passing grade Hana managed to achieve, Sophie's hazel eyes go wide and scandalized. "Hana! How do you expect to get into Stanford with a grade like _that_?"

Hana's amusement is plain as she shakes her head. "You forget that Stanford is _your_ dream school, not mine. Believe me, my aspirations for higher education are decidedly less ambitious than yours, which you already know."

"You could get into Stanford, too," Sophie shoots back earnestly, because Sophie Laurel will never make peace with the idea that a degree in art, let alone _fashion_ , is a sensible and reachable goal for Hana. For Sophie, college is all about being serious and learning big, world-changing things and while they may agree on many things, this subject is one that will forever be in debate. "All you need to do is apply yourself and study something that isn't a fashion magazine."

"Oh, Soph," Hana sighs fondly. "I could study my textbooks until I go cross-eyed and it would still be hopeless."

"That's not true!"

Hana's amusement at Sophie's earnestness is derailed by the dismissal of the class. She gathers her supplies – a slim pink folder, a composition book, a pearly day planner, a pen – along with her seldom-used Algebra II textbook and waits for the initial rush exit from the classroom to peter out. Then, taking her time, she follows Sophie out into the hallway, occasionally smiling at the various _hellos_ she receives along the way to her locker.

"Besides," Hana continues serenely, opening her locker and exchanging her materials for her next class. Thankfully, Hana does _much_ better in English Lit than Algebra, otherwise her grandparents _and_ her father, who is stationed overseas, might have actual conniptions. "I like the idea of helping people and fashion can do that just as much as bio-whatever."

"Biochemistry," Sophie corrects absently, head halfway stuck into a locker two doors down from Hana's.

"Yes, that." Hana closes her locker gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. When she speaks, her tone is resolute with the conviction she feels for the subject. "Fashion is just as important. The way people perceive each other totally depends on the way people are dressed. You've seen how much of a difference it makes to have frames on your glasses that suit your face, or how a skirt hemmed to your height is more flattering. People don't look at you and see hopeless nerd anymore, do they?"

It's true, too. When they first became friends as freshmen, Sophie had a habitual ponytail, clunky black frames too square for her face, and a tendency for nail-biting that frankly horrified Hana. Now, Sophie understands the importance of pedicures, the colors that work best with her dusky complexion, and how to balance studying with self-care. Hana will forever be convinced that there isn't much in this world that can't be overcome by paying attention to what they see in the mirror. And a little pampering.

"That was a compliment, I think. But," Sophie concedes. She unearths from her locker the book they're reading for English, _The Scarlet Letter_ , with a shyly victorious grin. "I _do_ see your point. Although, I'm still not giving up hope that maybe you'll discover a love for the softer sciences. Psychology, maybe."

Hana smiles fondly. "Stay optimistic, Soph."

Because doing well in school is decidedly not in Hana's skillset. Part of the blame falls to the mishmash of education she had up until middle-school, where every year saw Hana in a new school in a new country with a new language barrier to work around. The rest of the blame falls squarely on Hana's general disinterest in math and science, subjects which only serve to muddle together in her mind. She does better in what Sophie calls the _humanities_ and Hana has largely made peace with that. She might not be the top of her class, but she isn't at the bottom either – and life has taught her that academics aren't the most important thing in the world. Hana knows exactly where her strengths lie – making a difference in the lives around her. She doesn't need a book to do _that_.

And while some might be annoyed that Sophie keeps pushing for Hana to reach a pinnacle of potential more appropriate for other truly _smart_ people, Hana can only take comfort in the notion that Sophie genuinely _believes_ in Hana _that much_. How could she ever be offended by a best friend who holds her in such high esteem? She and Sophie may never quite agree on the importance of book-smarts versus life-skills – and that's perfectly fine, as far as Hana is concerned. They might have a better chance at balancing each other out if that's the case.

An abrupt, completely _churlish_ chuckle slices through Hana's equanimity. Logan Brandt, whose locker is in the same hallway, has apparently been listening in on Hana's conversation with Sophie and has formed some sort of _opinion_. Hana knows this because Logan doesn't even bother pretending otherwise as he says, "She's going to need more than optimism to contend with that amount of superficiality."

A hot, embarrassed flush rises on Hana's cheeks. "Not that it's any of _your_ business, of course," she says frostily.

Logan rocks on his heels, both hands in his pockets. He's blatantly disregarding the dress code with a wrinkled, untucked shirt and a missing tie, and all it does is serve to further irritate all of Hana's sensibilities. He leans a little toward her from across the hall, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "If your vapid mind can comprehend it, if I can _hear_ something then it does become my business. But you know all about that, don't you?"

Hana _does not_ gape at his heavy-handed hint about her _accidentally_ overhearing his little temper tantrum from the other morning, but it's a close thing. Instead, she huffs at him, crosses her arms, and does her best to ignore his entire existence.

Logan snorts and departs off to whatever class he has next. _Music theory_ , a traitorous corner of her mind remembers.

Thoroughly peeved, Hana looks up at Sophie and asks, "Can you _believe_ him? The audacity, really! I've never met a more disagreeable person in my life."

Sophie's brow knits together, a bemused slant to her mouth as she jostles the prizes won from her overly-filled locker. "Well, he likes you, right? He's just exceptionally bad at showing it."

"Logan Brandt does _not_ like me."

"Really?"

Hana huffs at the skepticism in her friend's voice. "Yes, _really_. All he does is imply that I'm nothing more than some kind of walking, talking paper doll. Just now he practically called me stupid. That is the exact opposite of liking someone."

" _The lady doth protest too much, methinks_ ," says Sophie.

Hana takes a moment to think about Logan Brandt – undeniably attractive, all lanky-limbed and bronze-skinned and umber-haired with blue eyes almost as intense as his prickly personality. The only person she's ever seen him be kind to is his mother, who works as a surgeon at the local county hospital, and even then it's a rare occasion. He's too irksome to be popular and she has the impression that he generally finds dealing with other people tedious. _Especially_ if that other person is Hana.

Hana shakes her head. "No, I think the lady protests just enough. Logan doesn't like me. He barely even tolerates me."

"Yeah, I know." Sophie suddenly smiles widely. "The way your two bicker is really cute."

A half-suppressed laugh slips between Hana's lips at Sophie's teasing and she finds herself marching away in a state of faux-offense, talking over her shoulder. "Oh _,_ you think you are _so_ funny, don't you?"

Sophie hurries to catch up. "Generally yes. But also in this case I think I'm right."

"No, you aren't."

"Half the junior class agrees, you know," Sophie says conversationally. "Last I heard, Adena Khan and the Drama Club were taking bets to see how long it'll take before you and Logan get together."

Hana gasps. "No! Are you kidding?"

Sophie titters. "I'm really not."

She looks to Sophie out of the corner of her eye a little skeptically. It isn't like Sophie to know these kinds of things because, of the two of them, _Hana_ is the one usually interested in the St. Agnes gossip mill. Unless… "You ran the numbers for them, didn't you?"

"And put down twenty dollars on you two getting together by Halloween," Sophie says proudly.

"You're supposed to be my best friend!" Hana cries with no true anger.

"I am!" Sophie winks. "And as your best friend, I think I'm probably in the best position to know these things!"

Hana swats Sophie's arm, giggling at the absurdity of it all. The hallways between classrooms are rapidly clearing as they take the short-cut around the front office where the school's trophies are displayed in a glass case. It's only by happenstance that, as she passes the trophy case, Hana notes an odd flash of gold among all the silver and bronze and blue velvet.

Her gaze is drawn unerringly to the shape of golden eyes reflected back at her – and she gasps sharply, dropping her books on the floor as she comes to a sudden halt. Hana blinks and the eyes are still there, more clear than they were just seconds before.

"Hana?" Sophie asks, concern melting through her voice as she touches Hana's elbow. "Hana, what is it? Did you trip?"

"No, I saw…" Hana shakes her head, tearing her stare away from the golden eyes in the trophy case.

Sophie looks worried. "You saw something? Where?"

"There's something in the trophy case," Hana answers in a whisper.

Sophie turns and examines the glass. To her credit, she looks all around the trophy case before her frown deepens and not once does she see the golden gaze still trained steadily on Hana, that translucent gaze from the glass. "I don't see anything," Sophie declares, turning back to Hana. She places the back of her hand on Hana's forehead. "You don't feel feverish…but maybe you're sick?"

 _No, I'm just going crazy,_ Hana thinks numbly, dropping her eyes to her feet. She shivers, still able to feel _those eyes_ on her, and it sends a spike of alarm through her chest.

The warning bell rings as Sophie speaks again. "Do you want me to walk you to the nurse?"

And what would Hana tell the nurse if she were to go? She's seeing things that aren't there? She goes to a Catholic school, for goodness sake; they'd just as soon tell her to speak to the chaplain as they would send her home. And her _grandparents_ , traditional as they are, would march her to the Shinto priest in Japantown to pray for Hana to be exorcised. And, God, her _father_ is actively deployed right now, so the last thing he needs to be worried about is Hana being institutionalized, or something. Are people still institutionalized? Hana certainly doesn't want to find out.

"Hana?"

"I'm fine," she says, a little wooden. She closes her eyes briefly and when she looks back at the trophy case, the golden eyes are gone, as if they hadn't been there in the first place. Whatever that little _episode_ was, it's over now. "I'm fine," she repeats again, this time with a ghost of a smile. "I skipped breakfast this morning and must have gotten a little dizzy."

"Are you sure?" Sophie asks doubtfully.

"Positive," Hana says firmly. She kneels down to collect her supplies and when she stands, she has plastered on an appropriately _normal_ expression. "Let's get to class, alright? We're going to be so late…"

Sophie still doesn't look like she fully believes Hana, but she lets it slide after a beat.

Hana just wishes it's that easy for _her_ to do the same.

* * *

 **A/N: All the writing blogs say "start as close to the beginning of the rising action as possible". In the first iteration of this story, I realized I had made a grave mistake in starting very far from the rising action, which ended up stalling the story and making it difficult to progress. Here, I have done quite the opposite.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	3. two

**two**

Hana splashes cold water on her face to rinse off her nightly cleanser and blindly reaches for a hand towel to pat-dry her skin. She straightens up, inhaling the soothing scent of a lavender candle, and promptly stifles a scream once she catches a glimpse of the mirror. Hana moves away from the sink so sharply that she slips on the fluffy cream bathroom rug, lands on her rear, and narrowly avoids knocking her head against the cabinet.

Hana stays splayed out on the floor for a long, terrible moment. Her mouth is dry and she feels cold, almost jittery. Her hand closes tightly around the damp hand towel as she shifts onto her knees, cautiously peeking over the edge of the sink to see the mirror. A mirror which is free of the golden eyes that had been staring at her curiously not moments ago. Her breath escapes her in a wilting shudder, shoulders slumping forward as her thoughts race.

Why is this happening to her? Why does this _keep_ happening to her? First the trophy case, now her bathroom mirror. And why do those eyes, which she is surely hallucinating, look so familiar?

It takes a while for her to place where she's seen those eyes before. She's already brushed out her hair and rubbed vanilla jasmine lotion into her skin before she makes the connection. Hana freezes in place. Yes, she has seen those exact eyes recently – set deeply into the face of her would-be stalker, that white-blond oddball actor who stopped her on the street in September.

Hana spends the next half-hour quietly freaking out because _she must be losing her mind_. Is she, like, hallucinating? Is it something worse? Should she go to a doctor? No. No, that doesn't seem like a good idea. She doesn't know what to do, but she does know what _not_ to do. Hana won't be telling _anyone_ about whatever delusion she's suffering – she _definitely_ doesn't want anyone to know. Ever. She will just keep her distance from anything reflective.

Which, honestly, is kind of a pain. Her room is basically a sanctum for mirrors with all four walls playing host to dozens of mirrors of various shapes; small circles, a trio of large stars, two tall narrow mirrors on the back of her closet doors, a wide horizontal mirror over her bed, and a stained-glass mirror fashioned after a lotus which her mother made not long before she died. Hana very reluctantly covers all the mirrors with gauzy scarfs and delicate lace shawls and spare sheets, feeling very putout with how _small_ her room feels once everything is covered. Without the mirrors, she feels almost suffocated. Claustrophobic.

"At least I still have the lights," she muses, fingering the drape of the tiny fairy lights winding around her white metal headboard. Of course, the lights twinkling around her ceiling, nightstand, vanity, and the stout coffee table where she studies doesn't have quite the same brightening effect with the mirrors all covered up, but Hana will just have to make do.

She can cope with the dullness until these _episodes_ stop.

Which they will. Eventually. She hopes the cause is just because of how thin-spread her time has felt lately. She's tired, is all. She has a lot of obligations. It's just stress.

Sleep doesn't come easy that night, and what little she manages is, at best, restless.

Hana wakes very late on Saturday morning, which is quite a bit out of the norm for her. Sleeping in until almost noon is odd for a girl who usually rises with the sun, but she chalks it up to her strange night and quickly puts the issue out of her mind. She's only just emerged from her closet, dressed for the day in a long-sleeved, cranberry floral print sweater under a denim overall dress, hair loose about her shoulders, when there is a brief, perfunctory knock on her bedroom door.

Hana smiles at her grandmother as she breezes into the bedroom. Satomi Akimoto is a woman of aged grace, her grey-streaked hair bundled into a careful bun, outfitted in _hakama_ dyed a lovely shade of sapphire and a simple white _kimono_ blouse. The creases around her mouth are equally from a lifetime of laughing and frowning and there is a shadow to her shrewd stare that has never quite left after Hana's mother passed. This is a woman who has spent an entire lifetime caring for her family and who doesn't intend to stop anytime soon, because as soon as sets eyes on Hana, she begins demanding answers in a way only a grandmother can.

" _You missed breakfast. That is very unlike you. Are you ill? Should I call for a doctor?"_ Grandmother rattles off in Japanese as she places a cool hand on Hana's cheek. She clicks her tongue in disapproval. " _You don't seem sick…Unless, did you have an upset a school?"_

Hana shakes her head, wondering at the people in her life always checking her for _fevers_ , of all things. It's nice to be thought of and everything, but it's also a little nettlesome that everyone assumes she's sick if her behavior changes in the slightest. Almost exasperating, really. Can't Hana simply have an off day?

Hana grasps her grandmother's hand, giving it a squeeze as she taps into her second language to address the concern swimming in the elder woman's gaze. In somewhat stilted Japanese, Hana says, " _Nothing is wrong, Obaasan. Sometimes it's healthy to occasionally sleep in, yes? I suppose I'm feeling a little lazy today._ "

Her attempt to quell her grandmother works. In the next breath, Grandmother is tutting at Hana with faint disapproval. " _Ah! Youth and laziness. I will not abide it!_ "

" _Well, I do have homework to do today, so I will really be lazy."_

 _"_ _Hmph. That will have to do. But before that, I need you to take Ojiisan his lunch,"_ Grandmother orders with a long-suffering air that only mothers and wives seem able to achieve. _"He forgot it this morning and I do not trust him to adhere to the diet the doctor put him on. Left to his own devices, that man will be eating takoyaki by the bucket."_

Thinking of her spry, wily grandfather, Hana has to concede – even privately – that her grandmother is probably right in her estimations of his self-discipline. No doubt he purposefully left his lunch behind so that he would have an opportunity to sneak restricted foods. He probably didn't account for _Hana's_ willingness to lend aid in her grandmother's mission to keep his heart beating for another twenty years, though. Hana is more than happy to run this errand for her grandmother. She owes both of her grandparents a lot, because it couldn't have been easy to take in the last living piece of their daughter so soon after cancer stole her away. Sometimes she catches them looking at her with abject grief and has to sit with a senseless feeling of guilt; half-Japanese Hana may be, she still carries more features of her mother than her father. If running errands and playing the middle man between a bickering elderly couple is all she can do, then Hana is grateful to give back in those small ways.

Before she can leave the house, Hana is sternly sat at the kitchen table and presented with two plum _onigiri_ and a cup of green tea while Grandmother goes about readying the _bento_ box for transport. As she eats the riceballs, Hana admires the meticulous care her grandmother expends in preparing a lunch for her husband. There's something terribly romantic about it. Something about the attentiveness in the chore has been lost over time and she thinks that's for the worse, because there is just something lovely about the painstaking preparations her grandmother goes through for each meal.

One day, Hana hopes to do the same for her husband, should she have one.

Some might say that it's terribly anti-feminist of Hana to feel so wistful about it – she's certainly heard Sophie deride the notion of a woman cooking in a kitchen, as if the action is somehow synonymous with saying that a woman's _place_ is in a kitchen. Maybe she's wrong, but Hana doesn't think that her grandmother is oppressed by taking care of her husband. And Hana doesn't think she would feel oppressed, either. It could be true that Hana is the antithesis of modern feminism, finding solace in ladylike hobbies and spending vast amounts of time caring about the way she looks; but it could also be true that Hana personifies feminism, because it is _her choice_ to do those things. Hana tends to think of herself as subverting modern feminism because, most acutely, she is taking her power _back_ through her choices. And isn't that what the core of feminism is about?

Hana suppresses a sigh at the odd tangent of her idle thoughts, finishes her light lunch, and accepts the _bento_ from her grandmother with a trace of ruefulness. She's still in _high school_ , for God's sake, and here she is, thinking about what it means to be a wife in the face of a feminist movement. How silly to be even contemplating such things. She places the blame squarely on her fitful sleep.

Hana is just…unsettled. That's all.

" _Now, you tell him that we have been married forty-three years and I am wise to his ways_ ," Grandmother orders briskly, following Hana to the front door. She waits until Hana has slipped into her penny loafers and pulled a small cross-body purse over her head before passing over the _bento_ box. _"And no dallying!"_

" _I know. I'm leaving now!"_ Hana waves a hand over her shoulder as she pulls the front door shut behind her, trotting down the porch steps with light feet and a tuneless hum on her lips. At the base of the walkway, she spots a figure in blue scrubs checking the double mailboxes and, possessing more than her fair share of manners, she pauses to offer a friendly smile. "Hey, Mrs. Brandt. Just get off shift?"

The trauma surgeon – and Logan's mother – looks tired as she answers. "A double, actually. Let me tell you, it's fulfilling work, but it never gets easier."

"Rough night, then? I'm sorry to hear that," Hana says sympathetically.

Mrs. Brandt makes a dismissive gesture. "Ah, don't mind me. I don't have any right to complain." Mrs. Brandt runs an appraising eye over Hana, a kinder version of an expression that Hana has seen before on her son. "And what are you up to?"

"Grandmother has me running an errand," Hana explains, holding up the lunch box with a little shrug. "It seems Grandfather _accidentally_ forgot his doctor-approved lunch today, so I have been tasked with correcting the mistake."

"His heart, right? That can be a bland diet. I've had many patients go through a lot of trouble to avoid eating healthy," the doctor notes wryly. Clare Brandt nee Wilson, a _divorcée_ of five years and a woman in her late forties, exudes a warmth that speaks well of her bedside manner; it seems that she can't help doctoring, even fresh off the clock.

"I can imagine! I think my grandfather is aiming to join those ranks, or at least valiantly trying." Hana tilts her head to the side, in the direction of the sidewalk leading down the hill of the Italiante rowhouses comprising the neighborhood. "Anyway, I should probably get going – I don't want to miss my bus."

"Yes, yes. Don't let me hold you up. And be careful, Hana," Mrs. Brandt adds, her tone abruptly foreboding. "There have been a slew of odd occurrences in the city that have been placing people in the ER. Take care of yourself."

Hana startles at the cautioning. Just _what_ had the surgeon seen on her shift that would make her worry about _Hana_ of all people? Hana isn't so paranoid as to think that Mrs. Brandt would be able to take one look at her and _know_ that Hana has been having _episodes_ , but the forewarning strikes a chord deep in Hana's stomach. "Duly noted, Mrs. Brandt," she says, and bids her a hasty farewell.

Hana's burden is tucked safely against her chest as she trots off to the nearest MUNI stop, boards the 3 Jackson route, and braces herself in her seat as the hybrid bus traverses the stooping San Francisco hills. The journey between Cathedral Hill and Japantown is no more than twenty minutes, which Hana spends mostly lost in people-watching. It's something of an idle pastime of hers to take note of the way people have styled themselves – clothes, hair, make-up – and mull over what _she_ would do differently. It's no secret to her schoolmates that Hana is a dab hand at makeovers, having been tapped by a classmate for advice every once in a while with exceptionally favorable results. In fact, it seems an intrinsic part of Hana, something she can't quite circumvent even though it invites criticism that she is vapid _and_ vain. She simply has a good eye for these sort of things! And if she makes tiny comments to strangers on a bus – " _Have you tried a coconut conditioner? Curls as luscious as yours deserve all the moisture they can get!"_ or _"My goodness, I just love those shoes! Where did you get them?"_ – at least she _knows_ that people aren't exactly bothered by it.

Maybe it's conceited of her or whatever, but Hana _swears_ that those little attentions make people feel lighter, a little less burdened, perhaps a tad more hopeful. And if suggestions are made in kindness, unsolicited or not, then what's the harm?

Even so, Hana enjoys simply being around people, regardless of whether she's offering quick tips. Humans are so vastly varied and there's such beauty to be found in one another that Hana is helpless but to admire it – almost as helpless as she is but to bask in the warmth of a sunny day, like a cat sunbathing.

As it is, Hana is so involved in a spontaneous conversation about cuticle care with pair of young teens that she almost misses her stop. "Toodles!" she calls over her shoulder, stepping off the bus and directly into a crowd thick with tourists.

Like other pockets of the city, the Japantown neighborhood is one that draws attraction, both for its historical relevance and for the shops that barter in authentic Japanese products, from food all the way down to shrine trinkets. Hana expertly navigates the crowds, calling out greetings to familiar faces, and even once being stopped for directions. The business isn't so out of place for a Saturday in early October, but the crush of bodies does make it somewhat difficult to reach her desired goal. After easing her away around a cluster of little boys chasing a soccer ball, Hana finally stops in front of her destination. She takes a moment to catch her breath, admiring the dull red storefront and the stenciling on the windows mimicking traditional _shoji_ screens. The wares in the shop itself are what might be called novelty items, ranging from near-antique crockery, finely-tooled accessories, and spring _yukata_ to very pretty, very useless slippers and trinkets riddled with Japanese proverbs that are, at best, often confusing to Westerners when translated. But unlike some stores in the district, all the items sold from _this_ shop are imported directly from the motherland, and it is that very fact that has made the shop a unique attraction for over thirty years.

Hana looks at the shop and has a sense of legacy.

A little golden bell chimes as Hana enters the store tucked into the center of Japantown; the noise alerts the grey-haired man standing behind the humble bamboo counter, a fine silk depiction of the Japanese Kami hanging from the wall behind him. Grandfather's friendly expression melts into a scowl once he catches sight of her. He curses, then releases a gale-force sigh of resignation. "She caught me," he grouses. He eyes Hana shrewdly, crossing his arms over his chest. "And she sent her minion after me, too."

Hana smiles broadly. "I brought your lunch, _Ojiisan_ ," she says unrepentantly, donning a faux expression of doe-eyed bewilderment. "How silly of you to forget such an integral piece of your day! It's almost as if you were _trying_ to circumvent this healthy food for a fatty alternative, which I know can't be the case, otherwise Grandmother would be so very disappointed."

"Impertinent brat," he says. But there is an indulgent tilt to his smile and a hint of humor in his eyes as he beckons her forward. Hana cheerfully sets the _bento_ in front of her grandfather and watches as he unties the cloth holding it all together. "Tcht. No avoiding it then, I suppose."

"Grandmother just wants you to live a long, long time."

"Yes, but must I eat so _blandly_ to pacify her? I have forgotten the taste of _true_ miso – and _tempura_ …"

Hana giggles at his antics, leaning up against the counter as Grandfather eats where he stands. The store is empty, a lull in what she's sure has been an otherwise busy day, though surely not as busy as over the summer when Hana was working here part-time. The pair chat and Grandfather tries – unsuccessfully - to foist some of the vegetables off to Hana; in revenge, he chides her about some of her poorer grades, albeit the reprimand is half-hearted. Of her two guardians, Grandfather is certainly the more lenient, as well as being the one who had easily embraced Western culture after immigrating to America. Even now, Grandmother seldom makes any effort to speak English or step out of traditional clothing; in contrast, Grandfather's closet is full of button-downs and khakis, and he doesn't insist that Hana only converse in Japanese at home.

It's exactly how her mother described it when she told stories about growing up in San Francisco as a first generation Japanese-American. On the days when Hana is melancholy that the Army has her father stationed halfway across the world, she takes solace in this fact – in how close she feels to the memory of her mother. It is, in some ways, a fair trade.

Grandfather packs up the empty _bento_ box, pushing it toward Hana across the countertop, careful not to knock over a display of wooden charms for luck. "Are you satisfied now, hmm?"

Hana tucks the small, rectangular box against her chest and nods. "I am – and better yet, I'm sure Grandmother will be ever so relieved to learn that I've completed my mission…"

"My, what _are_ they teaching you at that school? How to double-talk?"

"Mostly Hester Prynne and polynomials, actually. The double-talk I learned from you," she says cheekily.

"So insolent!" Grandfather declares with a smile. "Be gone with you, now! You must have better things to do than watch an old man eat!"

"Believe me, homework is much more boring!"

Grandfather sends her off with a promise to pass along to Grandmother that he will be home for dinner, willing to suffer through more of his restricted diet; greatly amused, Hana agrees to deliver his message word-for-word. Far be it for her to point out to either grandparent that they could snipe good-heartedly at each other much more effectively by using a cellphone, but she also suspects that the messenger ritual is another hallmark of her mother's childhood – and Hana covets any such connection too much to speak up.

Hana is smiling to herself as she meanders in the general direction of her bus stop, so lost in thought that she doesn't even realize she's walked directly into another person until two hands catch her on the shoulders and hold her fast. The _bento_ box wrapped in cloth drops to the concrete with a dull clatter. Hana looks up, an apology already on her tongue, only to stutter herself into silence.

Gold eyes.

Hana gasps. "You!"

* * *

 **A/N: I like this version of the Hana character more, I think. She seems...fuller somehow. She's interesting to write in that she has many different "faces" that she wears and the face she dons depends entirely on who she is interacting with. What is Hana's _real_ face? Even I don't know.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	4. three

**three**

Hana struggles ineffectually against the steadfast grip holding her immobile. "Let me go!" Hana hisses, ever aware of the bystanders all around them. She doesn't want to cause a scene or anything, but if she puts up enough fuss, _someone_ will surely come to her rescue and make this man unhand her. Only, even as her motions to escape grow more exaggerated, Hana makes a note of something odd.

Nobody is paying them a lick of attention.

It's like they can't even _see_ that Hana has been captured by a perfect stranger! Tourists of Japantown and residents alike just walk on by without even a flicker of attention to Hana's mounting panic and that, more than anything, is what calms her scuffling attempts to free herself.

"They can't see..?"

"Indeed, they cannot," says the golden-eyed man.

Or, rather, _young_ man? Teenager, maybe? His age is hard to place by sight, because while he is youthful and his face unlined, there's also a wizened quality to his voice, to the weight of his stare; and those things, coupled by blond hair so light and fine it might as well be white, leaves her unsure as to how old he is. Actually, now that Hana is paying attention, there's something profoundly _alien_ about this man. Even the way he is dressed in a full-length white cassock with gleaming gold buttons secured all the way up to his chin, thin white slippers, and a gold sash around his waist that bears the weight of a weird, three-pronged knife…thing that looks really, _really_ sharp. _He looks like he's in high quality cosplay_ , some small part of her mind notes. And that's not the only thing truly abnormal about him, either. She thinks back to their first meeting a month ago and recalls that he had assumed her alarm was derived from an improper _introduction_ , of all things! Clearly, his social skills are severely lacking.

Bizarrely, this observation is what makes her fully relax. Hana is _good_ with people in general and, when she puts her mind to it, she can be exceptionally good with the socially awkward. She finds herself using the same calm, cool tone she uses with unruly children as she says, "You know, it's very rude to grab strangers. It's a violation of my personal space and I would appreciate it if you would release me."

He doesn't seem to hear her. The odd man with the golden eyes is scrutinizing her very seriously. "Do you remember me, Gatekeeper?"

Hana tries to subtly shift away from the firm hold he has on her shoulders, admits defeat because he is strangely strong, and then sighs. Does she remember him? He must be joking. "Yes, I do," she answers primly. "Now, please let me go."

He presses onward, ignoring her request. "Do you recall my title, Gatekeeper?"

"Your title…? Oh, that." Hana squints her eyes in deep thought. "You're…Abbey, right?"

"Abbott," he corrects, although he does appear relieved. "I am a Guardian of the Gates and I implore you, Gatekeeper, to allow me the time needed to fully explain the situation to you, for your own benefit."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she asks, holding onto her patience. This guy has a knife-thing and some serious issues, and Hana is very keen on not aggravating him.

 _Abbott_ frowns in confusion. "It is what you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You always have been. Since the moment of your birth, you were deemed worthy of being a Gatekeeper and it is your solemn duty to attend to the Gate-"

"Look, Mr. Abbott, I'm sure you're usually a nice guy, but I have to be honest," she cuts in with a shake of her head. "You're really freaking me out here, and I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong girl. I don't know anything about gates or whatever, okay? So, if you could just let me go, that would be great…"

Hana trails off at the consternation that blooms on Abbott's ageless face. Her forced bravado is faltering in the face of what is proving to be a singularly surreal experience. Because, like, beyond what Abbott seems to believe and what Hana _really_ wants to deny, she also can't shake the way that the people around them are all blind and deaf to this strange confrontation. That sort of thing isn't _normal_. People might sometimes be willfully ignorant, but they don't just _not see_ things happening right in front of them.

Her stomach turns over, mind slowly processing through all the _odd_ in this situation – and all the strange that she's been trying to deny.

 _Can perfect strangers have shared delusions_? She wonders. _No. Probably not_ …

"I implore you, Gatekeeper, to open your mind as well as your eyes," Abbott says with an undercurrent of urgency. "Those who would open the Gate are aware of your significance and that places you in grave danger. You must accept the call of your destiny."

Her gaze latches onto the easy wandering of the other people in the Japantown square, the people who are wholly oblivious to her and Abbott, yet still manage to walk around them in a wide circle. "They can't see us," she repeats dimly. "Why can't they see us?"

"Humans often cannot see beings that tread higher planes of existence," Abbott says carefully. His fingers tighten on the tops of her shoulders. "They cannot see me, and because I have masked your presence, they cannot see you."

 _But I can see you_ , Hana wants to say. She's seen Abbott – or at least his eyes - in the trophy case and in her mirrors. Then her mind processes the way he's answered her question and she frowns. "You say that as if _I'm_ not human," she remarks. Her head is spinning, giddy dizziness swirling through her body, leaving her weightless and hopelessly confused.

"Correct."

Hana blinks at his simple answer. "I'm sorry, I can't have heard you right."

"I said, _correct_."

"Excuse me?"

Hana simply _does not_ understand.

"You are not entirely human, Hana. No Gatekeeper is," he adds knowledgably, as if to clarify. "You see, Gatekeepers are touched by creation, selected by the very weave of the universe for the sole purpose of rising up to protect the Gates-"

"Wait, no. _No_. I am human. I am _very_ human. Everyone is human," she insists, voice warbling.

Abbott is not swayed by the desperate twinge in her tone. "I am not, and neither are you," he declares again. He tilts his head in consideration. "Surely you are aware of how miraculous your birth was – it is my understanding that infants born at such a premature age seldom survive-"

His words are like a slap to the face; and there is the panic coming back, crawling up her spine, telling her to _get away, get far away_. "How did you know that?" she asks, voice thin as all of her calm begins to unwind, dwindling into a single thread threatening to snap. She struggles against Abbott's hold again, this time shoving against his chest with very little effect. It's like trying to escape from stone, that's how immobile she is made by his steady grip. She shakes her head and her mouth runs wild. "Nobody knows that, so how do you _know_ that? Why won't you let me go? Why are you _doing_ this?"

"It is my sacred duty to ensure you are aware and protected, Gatekeeper," he tells her.

"I'm not a Gatekeeper!" Hana cries, shoving at him again.

"You are," Abbott says. "My apologies if this news distresses you, but you _must_ be made aware. It is vitally important, not only for your life, but for the balance of the universe itself."

His words fall on deaf ears as frustrated tears begin to leak down Hana's cheeks. Desperation claws at her lungs and seizes her mind; it is instinct that drives her efforts now, a blind writhing that makes it all the more difficult to flee. "Let me go! Please, just let me go!"

And even as she is yelling – pleading – Hana still marvels at the fact that _nobody_ seems to be able to hear or see her. It's absolutely confounding.

"I cannot!" Abbott says over her. He shakes her shoulders a little, rattling her head into a brief silence. He changes tactic, trying to convince her in another way since the other way isn't working. "Certainly you must have noticed that you are different! Surely you must have seen how humans respond to you, drawn into your light, and how your very touch, even untrained, is a potent healer. Animals flock to you and vegetation thrives under your care. You find solace in the truth silently spoken by mirrors. You must know how sunlight energizes you! You must know how keenly the dark strikes fear into your heart! The fact that you can see me is proof enough of what I say, but if you need to know the signs, then know that you have displayed each sign of a Gatekeeper tenfold. You _must_ accept this, otherwise I fear your life may be forfeit!"

A phrase breaks through and once more Hana is frozen.

 _You must know how keenly the dark strikes fear into your heart_.

Oh.

That Hana is seventeen and afraid of the dark is a closely-guarded secret, one she has never shared with anyone. Ever. Because while nyctophobia is a common enough fear, the fact that she is no longer a child makes the mind-twisting panic she feels when enclosed in a dark space into something a little peculiar. More so, even, because Hana has always felt that her fear of the dark is more intrinsic than a particularly strong anxiety. To say that being in the dark strikes fear into Hana's heart – well. Not even Hana has been able to come up with such an accurate description.

Hana stares at Abbott numbly. He's still talking, something about some gate opening and how that's super dangerous for her, but she can't process the words. All she can think is this: Is he telling the truth? It would be an absurdly elaborate, not to mention senseless and kind of creepy, prank if he's lying through his teeth. And the thing is, Hana doesn't think he's lying, or a stalker, or suffering delusions. Not anymore. He knows too much about her that, even if nothing else he's saying makes any sense, she can't manage to refute him, either. The denial ready to trip off her tongue dies a quick death, right along with the denial she's been wallowing in ever since yesterday morning – since the first time she saw Abbott's eyes in the mirror. Hana lets out a shaky breath.

Abbott pauses. He seems to sense the tiny kernel of acceptance blossoming within her, because his expression drifts into one of elation; his grip on her shoulders slackens, and one hand falls to his side. He seems pretty intent to keep touching her. Does he need to keep some kind of contact to keep them invisible, or is this just some _quirk_ of his that she needs to put up with? Judging by the way people _still_ can't see them, she's guessing it's the former.

"You are a Gatekeeper," Abbott says for, like, the umpteenth time.

"Right. Okay." Hana chews on her lip. "I believe you, I think."

"You require _more_ proof?" Abbott sounds astounded by the possibility, as if it's unbelievable that she doesn't just take him at face-value. Wherever Abbott comes from must be some wonderful utopia where people never lie for their own gain.

"Well," Hana hedges uncertainly. Because while Abbott's explanation of _humans not being able to see them_ and the whole _eyes in the mirror_ thing and, like, Abbott knowing _every intimate detail of Hana's_ life are all pretty convincing, she's still trying to wrap her head around all of…whatever this is going to mean for her.

She has an inkling that it's going to mean _something_ for her.

Something not good, probably, because Abbott seems awfully convinced that she's in some kind of danger. Funny how this is the _second_ warning she's received today about that sort of thing. Maybe she should take it with more than a grain of salt?

Or maybe there is another possibility.

"Can't you chose someone else?" she tries with a hopeful look.

"There is no one else," he says immediately. "You are the only one suited to this Gate."

Hana's shoulders slump. "What does that even _mean_?"

"You must take up arms and fend off the enemy."

Her eyes widen in alarm. "Wait, wait – what do you mean _take up arms_? Are you saying that I have to _fight?_ I'm not a fighter! I'm not even athletic! I have zilch hand-eye-coordination unless I have a crocket hook in hand."

"You need not take up a weapon."

"Oh. That's good then."

"Human weaponry is far too crude to be used anyway," Abbott adds airily, which isn't as reassuring as he seems to think it is. Abbott's free hand reaches into a hidden pocket of his cassock, unearthing something that he keeps hidden in his closed fist. He holds his hand between them and, with one hand still on her shoulder, ducks his head down. "The sacred artifact I am about to bequeath to you has been used to defend your Gate for a millennia. You may find that it looks familiar to you…"

Abbott opens his hand, revealing a dainty piece of jewelry that dazzles Hana into quietness. It's a necklace made of a short, delicate silver chain and a pendant with openwork filigree surrounding the oddest stone – perfectly circular, the size of a bottle cap, and as smooth and clear as glass, refracting a hundred different colors. Almost like crystalline moonstone or opal.

And she has seen it before – in dreams buried deeply in her subconscious, dreams that she had forgotten until this very moment. Hana touches the stone gingerly, expecting coolness but finding a pleasing heat instead. A soft sound of realization drops from her mouth.

"You do recognize it," Abbott says with quiet confidence. "Yes, I thought you might. This is another sign that you _are_ the Gatekeeper for this particular Gate. It has been in your dreams, correct? Perhaps surfacing in times of grief, battering away nightmares, keeping you safe from the dark?"

Mesmerized, Hana can only nod.

"It is yours now," Abbott tells her. He lifts his hand to Hana's throat, mumbles something beneath his breath that causes his eyes to gleam brighter for a moment – and then there is a moth-like weight at the base of her throat, and she knows it's the necklace. "You will wear it at all times."

Abbott takes a single step backward, dropping all contact with Hana, his arms coming to cross behind his back. In an instant, a cacophony of sound filters into her ears, over-loud and replacing the silence she didn't even notice. People can probably see her now, standing dumbly as she is in the middle of the sidewalk.

"I have lingered on this plane for too long," Abbott says, drifting away to a store front, tapping on the glass with his knuckle. "I must go – but be assured, Gatekeeper, that I will find you again soon." Then, right before her eyes, Abbott just sort of… _melts_ into the glass, as seamlessly as if he'd never been there in the first place.

Hana blinks rapidly, utterly stupefied. Her mind is blank when she reaches up to touch her throat, feeling the shape of the necklace and its curious warmth beneath trembling fingertips.

"I'm not crazy," she murmurs. And then, baffled and a little horrified, she says, "Oh, my God. I'm _not_ crazy?"

* * *

 **A/N: This entire story is dappled with surrealism, which by itself is a challenge to convey in literature - something I discovered while writing this chapter, actually. How to suspend disbelief without the main character doing the same? It's a fine line.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	5. four

**four**

The necklace won't come off.

Like, at all. It won't even budge. The chain itself is composed of tiny links interwoven into a thin braid, the craftsmanship so exact and miniscule that it's almost unbelievable; equally unbelievable is the fact that the chain seems to _go through_ the filigree-framed iridescent pendant. Hana spends an embarrassingly long time trying to remove the necklace – it doesn't exactly go with her uniform – before discovering that it doesn't have a clasp at all. She can't figure out how Abbott got the thing on her. Magic? Alien technology?

Hana has a _lot_ of questions – things she should have been asking instead of getting all swept up in the moment – and most of them center on the necklace attached so firmly to her person. What is its significance? Why has she been dreaming of it? What stone is the pendant made from? Why does she have to wear it _all_ the time? It's totally ruining her aesthetic.

Hana huffs, cheeks puffed out as she stares into the mirror she'd cautiously uncovered this morning. "Whatever," she says under her breath, tucking the necklace safely beneath the collar of her shirt and adjusting her tie with a trace of nervous anticipation. Jewelry isn't against the dress code, but Hana has a gut instinct telling her that _nobody_ must see her newest accessory. Maybe it wouldn't be such a problem if the chain was longer so that the pendant might rest closer to her heart, but as it is, the entire thing is snug around her throat like a choker. Hana sees many scarves in her future.

Maybe nobody will notice?

Seems like her life is full of _maybes_ lately.

Hana leaves for school early, just as she does every Monday, nursing a steel thermos of black tea and egg pastry as she walks. The sharp bite of the tea clears her mind and delivers focus; it seems like Hana has a thousand and one obligations this week. If she didn't enjoy the activities so much, she would lament at how little free time she has between all of her clubs and volunteer work. Top of the list is her weekly check-in meeting with Miranda Sternberg, the freshman Hana was assigned when she joined the St. Agnes Mentorship program. It's possible that adding another obligation to her calendar wasn't her brightest idea, but Hana had greatly appreciated having a mentor when she was a freshie and she thought it would be nice to keep paying that tradition forward. And while Hana doesn't consider herself Catholic, she does find that the St. Agnes mission statement is one that resonates with her.

 _Veritas est caritas_. Truth and Charity – or, alternatively, _the truth is love_. Personally, Hana prefers the latter translation. The world in general could do with a little more love; all Hana wants to do is add to that love as much as possible.

Miranda is waiting for her on the school stoop, tapping away on her phone with jittery fingers, shoulders hunched against the autumn chill. Hana has come to find that while the younger girl is sweet, she's also full of high-strung energy that often works against her. It's been part of Hana's mission for the last month to help ease Miranda out of the social skittishness that keeps Miranda quietly tucked away in a corner, or devoting all of her attention to _Tumblr_ , neither of which Hana views as healthy habits. If Miranda is shy, Hana sees it as her duty to bring her out of her shell. There isn't much that quality friendship can't fix, in Hana's experience.

Miranda pops to her feet as soon as she catches sight of Hana, pushing unruly, mouse-brown curls out of her face. "Hana! You're here already! Not to say that I wasn't expecting you, because obviously I was expecting you – and not to say that I'm not looking forward to this, because I am, naturally, looking forward to the highlight of my week, and I should really, really stop talking now."

An amused smile graces Hana's lips. "Good morning to you, too. How was your weekend?"

"I watched a lot of Netflix," Miranda confesses. She tugs on the hem of her horribly wrinkled skirt, then blushes bright red when it draws Hana's attention to the other unkempt details of her uniform. Miranda's voice drops to a whisper. "I misplaced my iron last night. Or my brother misplaced it for me…something to do with a robot he's building, I think…"

"We can fix it," Hana says reassuringly. It's a habit of hers to have a miniature arsenal of a sewing kit tucked away in any bag she carries, alongside other things she considers essentials – like extra tampons, Midol, and a starchy spray that expertly smooths away wrinkles in even the most stubborn of wrinkles. Hana passes her tea thermos to Miranda, guiding them both inside the school and into the nearest bathroom as she rummages through her bag. In the empty bathroom, it's only a few minutes of work to have Miranda presentable. Hana gives Miranda the spray canister as a hold-over until a new iron can be obtained, much to Miranda's mixed relief and embarrassment. At Miranda's hesitant protests, Hana waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, please, don't even worry about it. I have a bunch more at home and you need it more than I do, right?"

"If you're sure…"

"I am."

"Thanks, then. It's real nice of you…You're always so _nice_ ," Miranda marvels with a faint shake of her head. "I have no idea how you do it. You never seem to have a bad day."

Hana notes the idol-worship in Miranda's tone and feels a flash of guilt. "You'd be surprised," she tells the younger girl wryly. "I'm not perfect, you know. Nobody is. I think we're all just doing the best we can every day."

Miranda twirls a curl tightly around her finger, the strand so tight blood rushes to the top. "My best isn't so great."

Hana tilts her head, leaning against the sink. "What do you mean? I thought the tutor we found for you was helping that math grade you were worried about…?"

"Oh, he is – Marvin is great, honestly, I mean I never thought I would be able to make sense of geometry, but he manages to make me understand it. Even my parents are amazed."

"Something else, then?"

Miranda shuffles her shoes against linoleum, dropping her eyes. "I just…I can't talk to people – I mean, I can talk to you, obviously, and I can manage around Marvin, and naturally my family is a cake walk, but…Like, last week, there was an in-class project and while everyone else was pairing up, I was sitting at my desk with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. I had to be excused to the nurse because I just couldn't talk to my own classmates – not a whole group of them at once. It was too much…I just don't know what's wrong with me…"

Hana's heart clenches with empathy. It seems like Miranda's social anxiety is getting worse rather than better and Hana is reaching the point where she doesn't know what else she can do. The whole idea behind the St. Agnes Mentorship was to identify incoming students who might have trouble adjusting to the rigors of high school and give them an upperclassmen to act as a helping hand. Hana had been assigned one because she was new to San Francisco and her mother had just died; Miranda had been assigned one because the St. Agnes school counselor had seen a shyness that could become debilitating if left alone. Hana had been selected _specifically_ for Miranda because of how social she is, flitting between cliques with the kind of ease that Miranda needs to emulate for her own good. There's been some improvement, of course. The first time they spoke, Miranda could hardly manage five words to Hana – and now she's rambling sentences and making a concerted effort for eye contact. Which is good. Great, even. But if that progress is limited only to Hana and Marvin, a senior at St. Agnes going to MIT next year, then Hana isn't sure it can be considered _real_ progress.

Gnawing on her lip, Hana has the thought that there has to be _something_ she can do.

All at once, the solution comes in a flash of insight – better yet, womanly intuition. If the current methods aren't working, try a different one. Miranda needs a push, a shove, a kick in the right direction and Hana has the _best_ idea for how to accomplish that.

"Have you thought about joining a club?"

Miranda jumps at the suddenness of her voice, sloe-dark eyes round in surprise. "A club? _Me_?"

Hana can only offer a gentle smile at Miranda's incredulity. "There are all sorts of clubs you could join," Hana says matter-of-factly. The more she thinks about it, the more she believes this idea has merit. Now all they need is the _perfect_ club for Miranda to join, some place full of like-minded people, but enough of them to pull Miranda out of her shell. "Any come to mind?"

"Not really," Miranda stammers.

"Culture Club? They do a _fantastic_ spring festival with foods from all around the world and they watch really snooty foreign films and learn useful phrases. You might like it."

"I don't know…"

"We have a Gaming Club, though it's mostly boys and you being there might shock them into silence. Do you play computer games? No? Probably not the best fit, anyway."

"…Probably not…"

Hana snaps her fingers, straightens up from the sink, and makes a sound that is very close to _ah-ha_ in her elation. "I know! The Drama Club is hosting auditions all week for _The Pirates of Penzance_." At Miranda's understandably dubious expression, Hana's smile softens and she drops her voice into a quieter confidential tone. "I happen to know the club president and she says they're always looking for more people, stage hands and the like if you don't feel up to being _in_ the play."

Miranda's brows knit together. " _Penzance_ …What's it about?"

Hana mindfully tramps down on the glee that fills her once it's obvious that Miranda won't be rejecting this idea out of hand. She's _open_ to the idea and Hana counts it as a victory. "Oh, erm, pirates?" Hana laughs affably and Miranda starts to smile. "Adele mentioned it's supposed to be funny. She's trying to rope one of my clubs into making the costumes, you know. We probably _will_ since St. Agnes likes to see shared efforts between clubs – and it won't be such a chore since I'm sure free tickets will be part of the trade. Adele's productions are always very good."

"But, _me_? In a play? I don't know…" Miranda's tone may be skeptical, but she hasn't lost her smile.

"The Drama kids are all nice, I promise."

"I suppose…"

This won't do – Hana wants a commitment. She nudges Miranda's hand with her own, tilting her head to the side with a kindly dimple. "How about this? I'll take you by the auditorium after school today, introduce you to Adele, and you can see for yourself if this is something you might be interested in. Fair?"

Miranda clasps her hands tightly together, then raises her eyes. "I guess it won't be so bad if you're with me."

"That's the spirit!" Hana cheers, bouncing on the balls of her feet for just a second in her excitement.

She has a very good feeling about this, so much so that she takes the time before her first class to seek out Adele Khan, the president of Drama Club, and secure a time for Miranda to meet with her before auditions start. This tiny success leaves Hana preening for the entire day, so confident she is in this idea being _just_ the thing that Miranda needs. After all, who better than the most outgoing people in the school to unlock Miranda's anxious little cage? Maybe Miranda will find a love for acting and see it as an outlet for her social anxiety. Hana's pretty sure she read once that a world-famous actor did the same thing.

It's worth a shot, anyway, which is exactly what she tells Miranda when they meet up after school and Miranda is on the way to working herself into a tizzy. Miranda pins her with a beseeching sort of gaze. "Is that true?" she wonders, half in awe.

Hana shrugs delicately, then hooks her arm through the crook of Miranda's elbow, towing the younger girl deeper into the bowels of the school toward their destination. "Is anything we read about celebrities true?"

The rhetorical question sparks a one-sided debate in Miranda, in which her opinion volleys back and forth with very little input from Hana, effectively distracting the freshman from her anxiety. Hana feels cheered by this, taking it as a good omen, and feels further bolstered by this hare-brained idea she's been chasing all day. This could work; this could be really, really good for Miranda.

The St. Agnes campus is like many of the schools in San Francisco; instead of sprawling outward, the entire school is built upward with four tall buildings sharing a single first floor, which houses the office, cafeteria, and library. Most of the classrooms are in the lower portions of the building, with extracurricular and specialized classes being on the upper floors. The single exception to this rule is what is considered the back building, which is comprised of the two-story auditorium, and above it the gymnasium, on top of which is the roof where there is a long-forgotten basketball court. When they arrive, the auditorium is a swamp of energetic chaos, with people shouting lines back and forth across the stage or working on improvisation with the empty bucket seats and the heavy green velvet curtains are sliding back and forth, threatening to knock over some of the kids working on backgrounds.

Miranda clams up in the face of all the activity, shooting Hana a desperate look; Hana pats her hand and smiles serenely, dragging Miranda to the one person skulking in the middle rows. Although all the hot lights of the stage cast strange shadows on the audience chamber, Hana would have to be blind to miss Adele's cascading, inky-black ponytail or the way she scribbles furiously on a notepad sitting in her lap.

Hana clears her throat, politely calling for Adele's attention.

"What?" Adele Khan snaps irritably. "I'm busy here. Bother someone else."

"I've brought someone to meet you," Hana says, unbothered by Adele's harsh tone. She has founds that Adele has exactly two settings – feverishly inspired, in which case she is also sharp-tongued, or sublimely excitable. There is no in between. The best way to deal that that, Hana thinks, is to remain a steady source of sweetness.

Adele turns her head sharply. She stares at Miranda. "This is her?" she asks without looking away.

"Adele, this is Miranda Sternberg. Miranda, meet Adele Khan, venerated president of the Drama Club and future pioneering director." Hana's introductions are accompanied by hand gestures and Miranda's audible gulp when Adele does little else than stare at her with a strange, assessing blankness. Hana places her hand softly on Miranda's shoulder. "I think this is going to be a great fit!"

Adele purses her lips together, tapping her pen against her cheek. "Do you speak?" she asks Miranda bluntly.

"I- Y-yes."

"Can you speak without stammering?"

"Y-yes. Or, uh, no."

"Can you do it in front of an audience?"

"I-I have no idea."

Adele hums, looking rather unconvinced. She gives Hana a side-eye and a skeptical tilt of the head. "Why should she be here?"

"Miranda is a huge fan of television. She's binge-watched everything worth watching and has a keen eye for hidden details," Hana brags promptly. "She would be an asset to your stage crew. Everyone knows that passion makes up for what is lacking in talent and if you let her, Miranda will show you just how much passion she has for the performing arts."

"You make a compelling case."

"Thank you."

Adele clicks her pen a few times, then heaves out a sigh. "Okay. Alright. Here's what we'll do. Because Hana is the walking personification of sunshine and because I can't say no to someone so earnest, I'm going to let you in on a trial basis," she says to Miranda, all business. "I have a fall performance to perfect and the comedic timing in this play is giving me a headache, so I don't have time to make sure you find your feet. I'm assigning you to Trisha, head of the stagehands, and she'll make sure you stay busy, okay? _Trisha_ ," she yells abruptly, waiting for a dishwater blonde to pop her head around the curtains. Adele then waves her hand distractedly. "There's your boss. See her? Good. Now go!"

Miranda hesitates for a second, then darts off with a single skittish glance back at Hana. Watching as Miranda makes the necessary introductions with the people on stage, Hana feels a thrum of satisfaction – a job well done.

"Thanks for the favor, Adele," she says.

Adele shuts her notebook, a wry smile crossing her face. "What was I supposed to do, say no to you? It would be like kicking a puppy."

"I appreciate it all the same."

Adele makes a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, yeah. Okay, shoo-shoo. I have auditions to sit through, actors to cast, scenes to oversee, and you look like a distraction. Get out of here."

Hana does as she's bid, meandering out of the auditorium with a pleased hum. With Miranda taken care of, Hana's only plans for the afternoon consist of struggling through math homework, and as she isn't in any particular hurry to get home and do _that_ , she takes an alternate route back to the main building, using a hallway that circles back around to the library in the main building. It takes longer than the direct route, but Hana only has time to waste. She reflects back on what a good day it's been, all things considered. Truly good days are things to be cherished.

Hana exits the stairwell into the back hallway on the first floor, blinking her eyes rapidly to acclimate to the flickering half-lights. The hall is long and narrow and full of partially installed pallid grey lockers, orange cones and yellow caution tape circling what looks like the bare bones of a water fountain. Hana carefully picks her way around the construction, absently acknowledging that the rumors about this hallway being converted into extra lockers must be true.

The lights flicker – once, twice, a third time, each wink of darkness longer than the last – and, inexplicably, Hana begins to feel cold. A shiver traces along her spine, her mouth goes dry, and it suddenly feels hard to breathe, like she's sucking in air through a straw.

Again, the lights flicker, and something falls over behind her. Hana spins on her heel as she tries to identify what the clamor was about. One of the cones is on its side, rolling lazily against the floor. Hana swallows and forces her feet forward.

She's almost out of the hallway. And, yes, it may be a little _creepy_ with the faulty lights, but she doesn't have any real reason to feel as frightened as she does. Not really. This is just her mind playing a mean trick on her, using her fear of the dark against her.

The hallway lights flicker twice more – and then they stay off.

She can hear a scraping against the linoleum down the hall, something _moving_ in the dark, and her throat abruptly begins to burn. No. Not her throat. The _necklace_ is a burning warmth against her skin, and maybe she's just seeing things, but it seems like the iridescent stone is actually _glowing_ , illuminating the dark space around her. Knees weak, Hana stumbles over her feet – something is _wrong_. There is something there in the dark and she needs to get away. Now.

Hana hurries down the last few feet of the hallway, turning the corner only to slam into an unexpected obstacle, and when it seems like she's about to lose her balance, something catches her. She looks up, wild-eyed, and meets the electric blue gaze of Logan Brandt. It takes an embarrassingly long moment for her to register the fact that she's managed to run into Logan and that he, surprisingly, had stopped her from falling down. He's still holding her loosely, a faint furrow on his brow. Cheeks hot, she pushes away from him, warm and cold at the same time, her hands trembling.

"What spooked you?" he asks, but Hana barely hears him over the roaring in her ears.

Behind her, the hallway lights flicker on and Hana is quick to turn around, searching for what she thought she heard – searching for the _wrongness_ that was in the dark – but the hallway is as empty as it had ever been. She nearly gapes in shock. Hana reaches up to touch the necklace that had been searing into her skin moments before, but it is once again cool to the touch.

Did she imagine it? _No, it was real_ , she thinks shakily, eyes locked on the knocked-over orange cone. Whatever that was – well, it was _something_.

"Hana."

"There was…there was something…" She trails off, shaking her head slowly. Is this somehow connected to Abbott and the Gates, or whatever? She really hopes not.

Logan nudges her and says gruffly, "Come on, princess. Time to go home."

She stares at him a little blankly.

His mouth curls into a faint smirk. "You're going home, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just rolls his eyes long-sufferingly. "Might as well walk with me since we're going to same way. Try to keep up, princess."

Hana's racing heart finally settles into a semblance of a normal rhythm as she dutifully follows after Logan. And despite his grumpy, taciturn nature, Hana realizes she feels _safe_.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm trying to bring Japanese influences into this story in more than one way, so fun fact about Japan is that belonging to some kind of club is actually a big deal for middle and high schoolers. Like, a _really_ big deal! It's the kind of thing that even follows most students into college. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	6. five

**five**

Hana taps her fingernail against the face of the mirror, a low-pitched _clink_ that disrupts the quiet of her room. She squints at the reflective surface, trying to look past her own face with no avail; the mirror remains as inert as ever and only shows Hana how increasingly annoyed she's becoming. Brow wrinkled, she leans away from the mirror and sighs, moving on to the next one in her room. "Come on out, Abbott. I know you're in there," she coaxes, folding the gauzy scarf that had been hiding this mirror with slightly agitated movements. That scarf joins the other makeshift coverings in a growing pile on top of her study table, a visual reminder of how quickly she unraveled the week prior.

None of the uncovered mirrors in her room answer her – unfortunately – which is _really_ discouraging. Hana is still freaked out from the afternoon. She has _questions_ and the only person who has answers is Abbott – and he's absolutely nowhere to be found. She feels a little unhinged just going around and talking at all the mirrors in her room, but she doesn't know what else to do.

And, really, how does he even get _in_ a mirror in the first place? How does _that_ work? How does _any_ of this work? Hana is starting to realize that she didn't receive very much of a useful explanation the last time she saw Abbott, and she feels more than a little dumb for just going along with whatever he said. What if Abbott is, like, _evil_? It's possible! Or worse, what if she's _still_ imagining things? What if she never _stopped_ having episodes? What if the episodes have gotten _worse_? Oh, God, what if Hana really _is_ crazy and she just doesn't know it?

Hana is working herself into quite a state when her grandmother comes into her bedroom, the dry shuffle of her slippers against hardwood preceding the wonderful scent of honeyed chamomile tea. Grandmother's dark eyes take note of the messiness in the room, lingering on the pile of fabrics that had been covering the mirrors. She looks singularly unimpressed as she enters the room fully and passes over a porcelain cup of tea to Hana. " _We can hear your restlessness from downstairs."_

Hana takes hold of the teacup obediently and averts her eyes. She can hear the silent question hanging in the air; her grandmother wants to know what's wrong without directly asking, which is _so expected_ since Hana is obviously having emotions. Sometimes, Hana cannot help but to lament the cultural barriers between herself and her immigrant grandparents. She is too Western in her tendency to speak plainly, sometimes, and she knows her grandparents often bow to the culture in which she was raised rather than her own. Often, however, it is the case that Hana's open emotions are met with some level of discord. The Japanese view emotions as intensely personal, and for that reason – along with being only half-Japanese – Hana will always feel somewhat like an outsider. _Gaijin._

Yet, her grandmother is making the effort to reach out in her own way, and Hana is compelled to reach back. She doesn't want to lie, but she can't see a way to tell the truth, either – crazy or part of some whirlwind destiny, her grandparents don't need the stress of worrying about her. " _Sorry,"_ she hedges uneasily, moving to sit on her bed. " _I just can't seem to settle down."_

At least the last part is true.

Grandmother clearly doesn't believe her. " _Hana_."

Hana blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, a phrase that is often used in Japan and has no direct English translation in terms of connotation. " _Sore ha chotto…"_ It's a way of saying that Hana's concerns are her own, something that she wants to keep private to her own heart, and something that isn't meant to be shared with anyone else, not even her family. It's like saying something is _complicated_ , like saying she doesn't want to talk about it, and like saying _sorry, but no_ all at the same time.

When Hana speaks this phrase, a light of understanding enters Grandmother's face. " _Drink your tea_ ," Grandmother says, rather than pressing the issue. " _Goodnight._ "

Forever an outsider or not, Hana is grateful for cultural differences in this one stiff moment. If she tried the same thing on any of her friends, or even her father, she would be met with typical American resistance – rather than accepting that she doesn't want to talk, there would be _questions_ and pressure to speak, to explain, to let everything out. Grandmother, on the other hand, hears what Hana cannot say and offers a tacit show of support, closing Hana's bedroom door softly behind her as she leaves. The easy acceptance to leave Hana alone with her thoughts makes her wilt a little.

She sips at the tea, allowing the hot liquid to roll over her tongue long enough that she can detect hints of lavender from the honey. The tea isn't actually _making_ Hana calm, but there is something incredibly soothing about the ritual. Sitting in her room, which is illuminated only by moonlight and the teeny lights woven around her furniture, her cyclical thoughts finally slow down. The agitation that has been chasing her all afternoon wanes, leaving her to ponder this strange turn in her existence. She can't keep waffling between crazy and not-crazy; she can't be in a constant state of doubt, because that simply _isn't_ who Hana is and it obviously isn't a state that fits well.

Hana ends up on her terrace, teacup in hand, staring up at the swell of the moon in the partially cloudy sky. There's too much light pollution from the rest of the city to see more than a handful of stars, but even seeing just one is enough of a reminder of how very _small_ Hana actually is. Are her problems really so dire? She can be patient. Hana has never been anything more than a cog in the wheel and she knows that nothing has really changed, even if she has a _destiny_ or whatever. It's a comforting thought.

Hana doesn't need to chase down answers – she's never had to chase down _anything_ and there's really no reason to start now. Is there? No. She can wait; she _will_ wait.

Savoring the last of the tea, Hana's wandering gaze drops from the moonlit sky to the shed in the backyard next to hers. Yellowish light spills over browning, overgrown grass from the doorway, and if she strains her ears, she can hear the soft strumming of a guitar. She's never heard Logan play anything so _gentle_. Usually his music is frenetic, the exact antithesis to his usual aloof that she's always thought music is the only outlet he has for whatever emotions he keeps bottling up. He's talented and so is his band – but hearing this different sound, nearly a lullaby it's so sweet, makes her wonder if music is enough for him.

Any other time, she might scold herself for wasting time thinking about such an oftentimes _mean_ boy. Tonight, though, her thoughts continue drifting, turning over the problem of _Logan Brandt_ with some consideration. He's been in the back of her mind ever since he walked her all the way home after her scare in the hallway. He hadn't said anything the entire time, but he was almost quietly attentive, keeping an eye on her in such a fastidious way that she felt utterly untouchable. It's not the first time she's felt _safe_ around Logan. For all that he's obnoxious and rude and hasn't made a secret of how much he dislikes _her_ , he's not a bad person and she's never felt _fear_ when he's around. Isn't that strange? Or is it stranger that this isn't the first time Logan has shown up right when she needed someone the most? Coincidence, surely.

Does she even believe in coincidence anymore?

Hana shifts, placing the teacup on the railing near her elbow, chin balanced on the palm of her hand. She closes her eyes, enjoying the achingly simple melody playing below, a picture forming in her mind as she listens. There is a sense of uncertainty in the way Logan plays this tune – almost a wistfulness that sends a little flip through her chest, even as it makes her wonder what he thinks of as he plays. Or who.

She is so fully immersed in the sound that it comes as quite a shock when she feels something land on the tip of her nose. Her eyes snap open and she only has a moment to process the sight of something feather-light and white and insect-like _on her face_ before she is emitting a squeal and flinching violently. Her elbow jerks, sliding along the railing, and knocks the teacup onto the wooden slats beneath her feet, the unmistakable shattering of clay almost as loud as the noises she makes as she flaps at the _thing_ stubbornly clinging to her nose. She manages to dislodge it, heart rabbit-fast in her heaving chest as she watches the _whatever_ flit just out of reach – a moth? No, she's never seen a moth with wings like _that_. It takes a long moment for her to register that her assailant is a snow-white butterfly, of all things!

But her bewilderment is short-lived, because there is an insolent snort from the backyard next door, followed by Logan's low-pitched voice. "Problem, princess?"

Hana swiftly redirects her shock, gingerly placing a hand over the middle of her chest. She shakes her head a few times to downplay the situation. "Oh! No, no problem-"

Logan doesn't allow her to finish, the bright blue of his eyes gleaming with derision. "Not that I'm surprised. You always manage to be exactly where you shouldn't be, don't you? It's almost a talent," he remarks deprecatingly. His head is tilted back as he stares up at her terrace, a little rumpled in a dark hoodie and jeans, feet bare against the grass with the neck of a guitar held in a loose grip. There's a wan tension to his face, some suppressed emotion that makes her think his irritation isn't directed specifically at _her_. Maybe.

"That isn't fair," she argues, mindful of the volume of her voice.

He lifts a mirthless brow. "Isn't it? You did just hear something you weren't supposed to."

As if she'd done it on purpose! As if she can help what she hears from her own terrace! Mildly vexed, Hana doesn't bother to soften her retort. "Maybe you shouldn't play with your shed open if you don't want anyone to hear!"

"And maybe _you_ shouldn't be out when the nocturnal creatures are out if you don't want to alert the entire block with your girlish screeching," he points out dryly, evidently unmoved by her show of anger.

Oh, the _nerve_ of him! Hana can hardly believe she thought he might have an ounce of kindness in him for even a second, because _clearly_ she is very mistaken. Cheeks effused with mortified heat, Hana hotly declares, "Your E string is still out of tune!"

That seems to bother him, maybe for whatever sort of pride he possesses over his skills as a musician. He glowers up at her. "And what would you know about tune? I hear enough of your singing to know you're completely tone deaf."

"I am _not_ tone deaf! And I play three classical instruments, which is more than I can say for you!"

"How predictable – the princess thinks she's perfect."

"I don't think that!" Hana protests, voice growing louder in spite of herself.

But Logan just rolls his eyes, hefting the acoustic guitar he'd been playing over his shoulder as he stomps off to the backdoor of his house, leaving the lights in the shed on to illuminate the way. "Don't eavesdrop on me again!" Logan snaps, and then slams the door with a rattle of the doorframe. Hopefully his mother is working another night shift, otherwise such an action could wake her up – which is _completely_ inconsiderate of him.

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed into annoyed slits. Logan Brandt is totally and completely _awful_ , he really is. See if she's ever solicitous of _him_ again! Oh, but she's never had to repeatedly interact with a more disagreeable person – and really, what _is_ his problem with her, anyway? He's always provoking her, or worse yet, sending mixed signals, all gentlemanly concern in the afternoon and then a knot of teenage anger at night, like some bizarre Jekyll and Hyde complex. Hana is so busy fuming over Logan that she forgets about the _reason_ their spat started, at least until the white butterfly sees fit to land on her _again_.

Thankfully, the butterfly perches on the back of her hand this time, which is far less shocking than landing on her face. Hana flinches very minutely, caught between being charmed by such a beautiful creature, confused over why the butterfly is _lingering_ , and quietly freaking out because, pretty or not, there is still a _bug touching her_. She grimaces, and then the expression deepens once she spies the shattered cup at her feet.

What an awful night. What an awful, confusing _day_. Actually, the last week has just been a series of rollercoasters for Hana and she is just about at the end of her rope. Now she has a mess to clean up and a tender hurt from cruel words and a butterfly that is just _staring at her_ with its antenna at attention and its round, golden eyes –

Hana's mind stutters.

Golden eyes. On a pure _white_ butterfly that is much larger than most butterflies she's ever seen, now that she's thinking about it. And doesn't there seem to be something oddly luminescent about its wings, something that is akin to the way moonlight gathers in a silvery orb high up in the sky?

"No way..." Hana breathes, staring at the subtly glowing, golden-eyed butterfly. She's having a funny thought, the kind of idea that just isn't possible, let alone plausible or in any way something that could _actually_ be true.

But still, she leans down for a closer view at the butterfly sitting contentedly on her knuckle, tilting her head this way and that as she examines the creature. The way it seems to watch her _back_ is eerily patient. The kind of alien patience that Hana has encountered before.

"Are all human interactions so animated?"

The butterfly is speaking now – _talking_ to Hana as if such a concept isn't the strangest thing in the world, as if this is the sort of thing that happens to people every day, even though it definitely is _not_. This is so abnormally absurd Hana feels like crying.

Still, Hana _recognizes_ the voice seeping into her ears and her vision goes a little blurry. "…Abbott?" Hana checks, trying not to feel utterly ridiculous.

"Gatekeeper! Ah, I'm so glad you recognize me!" cries the butterfly.

The butterfly who is, apparently, _Abbott_.

"Oh, my God."

"How auspicious that you were outside to greet my arrival personally," he continues and his wings quiver a little in elation. "Tell me, did you sense that I would be coming?"

Hana opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her teeth click together as she inhales sharply, straightening up and swiftly redirecting her gaze to the few stars she can see, reaching for the tranquility she had achieved a handful of moments before everything decided to go sideways. She glances back down, confirming that gold-eyed Abbott really has turned himself into an insect.

"Why are you a _butterfly_?" she asks desperately, not really expecting an answer.

Abbott provides one anyway, even though it doesn't make very much sense to Hana in the slightest.

"Ah, well, this form is not my choice. You see, as your Guardian, I must become a reflection of who you are and you, Hana Akimoto-Thornton, are best represented by a butterfly," Abbott explains dutifully. "Creatures of transformation, did you know? Quite apt. And I must say, the ability to fly is _enchanting_."

Instead of any of the thousand questions bursting on the tip of her tongue, all that Hana emits is a ditzy titter. "I'll take your word for it," she says a little weakly.

Hana… _really_ needs to sleep.

Maybe things will seem less outlandishly impossible in the morning.

* * *

 **A/N: Many things about this chapter amuse me.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	7. six

**six**

The morning isn't _that much_ easier, all things considered. Hana still has the challenge of coming to terms with the fact that a talking butterfly will be following her around for the foreseeable future, which isn't exactly an easy task. The only consolation seems to be the fact that nobody can see Abbott except for her, so the main challenge is trying not to visibly react when Abbott addresses her – which he does frequently, full of questions about _common human behavior_ that she can't answer without looking like a complete loon talking at empty air.

Concentrating in class is difficult; and compounded by her struggle to keep up with material her classmates seem to learn with ease, Hana can foresee these new developments in her life becoming something of a problem. More than once, Sophie nudges her with a concerned frown, asking " _What are you looking at_?" in a hushed tone, trying to follow Hana's line of sight to no avail. Sophie can't see the sunlight dappling through Abbott's white wings, and she can't hear the mystifying curiosity he expresses for just about everything. All Sophie knows is that Hana is acting _off_. Distracted and absent-minded.

Sophie isn't wrong.

Hana quietly despairs that Sophie is too observant. Why does her best friend have to be the smartest in their graduating class? Why can't Sophie be as frivolous as Hana? There's no way for Hana to keep up any sustainable fib to explain any new weirdness Sophie might suspect.

Maybe she can blame it on PMS?

No. Probably not. Hana represses a sigh and pastes on an amicable smile, studiously keeping her eyes trained on her English teacher rather than following the graceful flitter of Abbott's wings as he inspects one of the knick-knacks on the teacher's desk. Thankfully, class is almost over because Hana has no idea how to subtly call Abbott back to her. Should she just trust that he'll follow her? He doesn't seem to have a problem doing that.

And what a strange thing to contemplate! _Oh, what even is my life_?

"Hana? Hello, Hana?" Sophie waves her hand in front of Hana's face, a little bemused when Hana sits back abruptly. "Are you okay? We've been dismissed."

"I...Sorry, I didn't hear the bell," Hana says with a frown.

Sophie hums, books held against her chest. "You've been such a spacecase lately," she remarks, watching as Hana hurries to clear her desk.

Hana titters nervously, tucking dark hair behind her ears. "Oh, well…" she flounders, searching for an excuse that Sophie might believe and coming up short. Such is the problem when she's in the habit of telling her best friend _everything_ and then suddenly finding something she's not willing to talk about. Hana makes an apologetic face. "I've just been a little out of it, I guess..."

"Is it your dad?"

Hana blinks. It takes a second before she grasps why Sophie might assume Hana's behavior is related to her overseas father, and then comes a flash of guilt. "Oh, Soph! No, no he's completely fine!" Hana is quick to say, because if there's one thing she's superstitious about, it's her father's health while he's deployed. She carries around an _omamori_ , a good luck charm from the shrine in Japantown, at all times for this very reason. Hana blows out a breath with a rueful smile. "Sorry, it's just been an odd few days. I didn't mean for you to worry about me," she says, careful not to lie as she tries to find some explanation that will satisfy her friend. This isn't the same as with Grandmother. However much she'd like for this to be the case, Hana can't just say _sore ha chotto_ and expect Sophie to back off.

Naturally, Sophie doesn't appear convinced. "Well, I'm here if you want to talk about it, whatever it is," she offers pointedly.

"I know and I appreciate that."

Sophie's eyes narrow behind her glasses, but the skeptical moment passes with a chest-heaving sigh and an accepting tilt of the mouth. "Alright. Anyway, what are you doing after school?" she asks as they trail out of the classroom.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hana catches sight of butterfly wings fluttering with interest, and she fixes her gaze forward. "I have to head over to the hospital," she replies.

"Right, I forgot," Sophie says with a tiny frown. "I was hoping you would help me study for my chem test."

"I can help with that after? Text me your notes and I'll pretend I know what any of it means while I quiz you," she promises teasingly.

"You joke, but I expect exactly that!"

Hana's laughter, bright and carefree, swiftly fades once a certain butterfly chooses to land atop her head. "What is this about a hospital?" asks Abbott.

Hana's eyes widen and she feigns taking note of the time from the big clock sitting above the lockers. She makes a hasty excuse to Sophie, claiming that she's going to be late and hoping that her departure isn't so abrupt as to come off weird, because Sophie is already suspicious enough. Still, Hana hurries down the hallway in the opposite direction, gripping her school bag on her shoulder as she twists and turns between clumps of students. Honestly, it isn't her usual way of leaving school, since more often than not she ends up caught in conversations on her way out the door. Doing the exact opposite has to be raising all kinds of flags, especially since waving with a cringe is the sort of thing she considers generally unfriendly. The cringing is mostly because she can hear Abbott and he's asking all kinds of questions. Why did Hana wave to that person, but not that person? How do they all know her? What is the significance of that brightly colored poster?

Hana can't decide if it's better or worse now that Abbott is _here_ as a butterfly instead of lurking in mirrors. And a distant part of her is marveling that such a thought is even crossing her mind, because what a very strange thing to consider at all!

It isn't until Hana is a good distance away from school that Abbott must decide he's tired of Hana outright ignoring him. Abbott zips around to fly in front of Hana's face as she treads up a hill. "You're being very curious now," he claims. "Talking all day and now you're silent. I don't understand."

"Well, I can't exactly talk to something that _nobody else is seeing_ ," she mutters, trying not to move her lips very much. She isn't successful. Ventriloquism has never been a skill of hers.

"Why not?"

"What do you mean _why not_?" But then Hana remembers that what might be obvious to _her_ is evidently obscure to him, which really makes her wonder if Abbott actually _is_ some kind of alien. He's definitely not human, because turning into a butterfly on the basis that it's somehow a reflection of _her_ is not any skill a human possesses, not even in the circus. It's all very confusing to think about. She shakes her head. "Never mind. I'll try to explain later."

"After this…hospital?" Abbott checks.

"Yes, after my volunteer shift at the hospital," Hana agrees absently, crossing the street to catch the nearest bus.

"Hospital…" Abbott muses, flitting alongside her. "What is the function of this _hospital_?"

Hana stumbles, catching herself in the nick of time. Abbott doesn't know what a hospital is and that, if anything, seals the idea that he's _totally_ an alien, like from Mars or a third dimension or _something_. "A hospital is…a place where people go to get better," she tries, feeling silly for such a rudimentary and incomplete explanation. How would she explain the concept to a child? Hm. "People go to the hospital when they're sick or hurt, and the doctors in the hospital help them feel better. Do you not have hospitals…wherever you come from?"

Thankfully, nobody is around to hear her ask such a question to the seemingly empty air. Abbott floats on the smallest of breezes, then circles back around to Hana. "It sounds like the healing houses in the Guild," he says thoughtfully.

Right, the Guild. Whatever that is. Hana has been able to cobble together that the Guild is some organization for Guardians like Abbott, but she isn't entirely clear on the function, other than pin-pointing so-called Gatekeepers like her. Understanding all that is part of a series of questions that Hana has, but unlike Abbott, she can wait patiently until she's in the privacy of her room so she won't have to worry about looking like a total nutter in public. Not that Abbott the invisible-to-most-people-butterfly has to worry about _that_ , of course.

"What will you be doing at this hospital?"

"Volunteering. I'm a Candy Striper, though I don't usually hand out candy. It's kind of an old-fashioned term," she muses. "I just go around and visit the patients, especially the long-term ones."

"And this activity is more important than training?"

Hana glances at Abbott sharply. "Training? What training?"

"A Gatekeeper cannot go untrained," Abbott informs her. "You must know how to protect yourself and it is essential you master your artefact so that you can close the Gate."

Hana stares at the white butterfly hovering a foot in front of her face, more than a little bewildered. This is the first time she's hearing about any _training_. As if she has time in her schedule for such a thing; As if Hana can just _rearrange_ her entire day on some whim! She didn't know _training_ would be involved in this Gatekeeper business – hopefully nothing too physically intensive, because Hana loathes sweating. In sophomore year, she did basically just about anything to get out of gym class; and this year, she opted for a nutrition class to make up the lost credits. Something tells her that Abbott's training is going to be the exact sort of thing she dreads.

"We'll talk about it after my shift," she decides as the bus rolls to the stop.

"The matter of training you is very important! I really must insist that training takes priority over all else, including this _hospital_ activity."

Hana lifts her chin defiantly as the bus doors squeal open. She pitches her voice low, stubbornly insisting, "To me, volunteering at the hospital is more important than training."

And with that, Hana boards the bus, paying very little mind to Abbott's fretting as he lands on her shoulder. Alien to human customs or not, there really is very little excuse for not giving advanced notice. It's only common courtesy! And anyway, what's so urgent about this training? Hana's been doing just fine by herself. Even though Abbott keeps saying that the Gate thing is some big to-do, Hana hasn't really seen any evidence of it and she finds it hard to believe that she'll be convinced anytime soon. It's just…still all very unbelievable. None of it seems quite _real_ , yet.

Hindsight is 20-20.

Hana has been dutifully volunteering at Benioff Children's Hospital for almost three years. At first, she took up being a Candy Striper because community service is part of the graduation requirements at St. Agnes and as a freshman, Hana had thought hanging out with some kids once a week would be much easier than joining Sophie in building houses with Habitat for Humanity. Well, Hana had been partially right – but halfway through freshman year, when one of the long-term kids passed away and brought up all the memories of her recently-departed mother, Hana also became privy to the stark reality that this kind of volunteer work is…emotionally taxing. Heartbreaking more often than not. She hadn't been sure that she would go back, but she did; and she continues to return to Benioff's each week even though she doesn't _need_ the community service credits anymore. She finds a sense of peace around these children.

For all those reasons, Hana is as comfortable in the hospital as she is in her own home. She's heard that some people can't stand hospitals, the antiseptic and the cold and the false cheer spread throughout the building. She can understand the aversion, but she doesn't feel it herself. Each time she navigates the vibrant corridors of the hospital, she can almost feel herself buzzing with renewed hope. That feeling is more pronounced today, with Abbott over her shoulder and this new knowledge about herself hanging heavy in the pendant around her neck.

Hana trails around the locker room behind the nurses' station on the ground floor and pops open the locker that had been assigned to her after it became clear that Hana would _always_ keep coming back. Inside, the locker is mostly bare except for two pairs of white jeans, a red-and-white striped vest, spare long-sleeved white t-shirts, and white slip-on sneakers; the upper shelf is dedicated to two little totes, one of kid-friendly cosmetics and the other full of crafts that have been approved by the head nurses. Hana exchanges one uniform for the other, collects her totes, and goes off in search of Candice, who always seems to be on duty when Hana is around.

Candice, sitting behind the nurse's station in the long-term ward, looks positively relieved once she catches sight of Hana, which is only a little unusual. "Jenny has been asking for you for the past two days," Candice explains as she stands from behind the desk, not even bothering with a greeting or taking the time to make small-talk. The immediacy is startling. She's dressed in pink scrubs printed with teeny teddy bears, the kind of uniform only pediatric nurses would ever entertain wearing. Candice smiles, a little tiredly, and gestures down the hall. "I wouldn't keep her waiting, if I were you."

In any other place, that kind of comment would be taken for light-hearted teasing mostly at the expense of the referenced person; but in a children's hospital, where many of the patients are terminal or chronically ill, the statement serves as a warning. Hana dips her head in acknowledgement, and when she gets to Jenny's room, she's grateful to have had some sort of warning. Jenny has taken a turn for the worse, it seems, because the last time Hana visited, she wasn't connected to half as many tubes and monitors. No wonder Candice looks so tired.

"This machine appears to be breathing for this child," Abbott remarks interestedly. "Is that a normal practice in these human hospitals? How interesting."

Hana closes her eyes briefly, outright ignoring Abbott in favor of gathering herself into some semblance of calm, as if she isn't perfectly aware that Jenny's condition is worse than ever before. Some distant part of her is flaring with righteous indignation, because there's something truly heinous about childhood cancer, and because Jenny is such a sweet girl and she doesn't _deserve_ this. None of these kids deserve this.

Cancer doesn't care about fairness, though. Hana knows that from experience.

Hana lets out a cleansing breath, stretches her lips into a jolly smile, and enters the sterile hospital room. Her heart twinges when Jenny perks up, hazel eyes lighting up with a spark of enthusiasm that had been missing before as she sets aside one of the e-reader tablets that hospital loans to patients. "Hana! You came back!" she exclaims, voice somewhat muffled by the oxygen mask strapped to her face.

Hana wants to cry, tears prickling behind her eyes. But if Jenny isn't crying, then Hana can't see how _she_ should have the luxury, either. So instead, she says, "Of course I came back! I wouldn't want to miss our appointment – and I think I have something you might like."

"Really?"

"Really. Here, let me see…" Hana rummages through the nail kit in the cosmetic tote, pulling out a square sheet of stickers meant for fingernails. She shows the sheet to Jenny with a conspiring grin. "See? I have your favorite."

"Unicorns!"

Hana grins, a true smile this time, and pulls a rolling stool over to the side of Jenny's bed. "Are you ready?" she asks as she spreads out her supplies.

"I want pink," Jenny declares, flopping her hands at Hana.

Hana selects a bubblegum pink from the collection of nail polishes in the tote, along with a cotton ball, hospital-approved remover, and a plastic-wrapped nail file. And then she gets to work, devoting her full attention to giving Jenny Danes - an eight-year old handling leukemia with more grace and maturity than anyone would expect – a manicure worthy of the best salons in the city. Complete with glittering unicorns on the thumbs and all.

She does her best to ignore the intrusive thoughts, the fear that this might be the last time she sees Jenny, the weariness made all the more real by how quickly Jenny grows tired of chattering and becomes quiet, tired. Every once in a while, Hana will hear Abbott wondering over Jenny's condition, but she ignores his inquiries and the way he glides around her head. There isn't anything to say, is there? There isn't anything Hana can _do_ , except to offer companionship and comfort and a sense of normalcy. It breaks her heart, but that's the truth of it.

When Hana caps the clear top-coat and announces the manicure done, she watches with a subdued smile as Jenny _oohs_ and _ahhs_ over her nails. She has the thought that she would do anything to help this innocent child.

And then Abbott speaks. "Ah, the yearning of a pure heart…"

Hana's gaze flicks over to him. What is he talking about?

Abbott, perched on the bed rail of the hospital bed, seems to perk up now that he's caught Hana's attention. "Yes! Yes, indeed, the yearning of a pure heart is a powerful thing! A Gatekeeper's pure heart is a powerful thing!"

Hana stares at the white butterfly in silent askance.

"Did you forget what healing your touch brings?" Abbott prompts.

A tiny furrow knits Hana's brow as she struggles to comprehend what Abbott is hinting at – talking about a healing touch as if it's a real thing that Hana can do, which surely isn't possible. Right? Only, this isn't the first time he's mentioned this and, for a moment, Hana's desperation about Jenny's illness makes it all too easy to reach for the hope that is always sitting at the edge of her mind.

Abbott said that her touch is healing. Hana glances at her hands and doesn't see anything special about them; small and fine-boned, nails neatly trimmed and coated in a pale, sheer white, a scar from a curling iron incident a few months ago. But Abbott thinks there _is_ something special about them – that Hana has been using them in a special way for a long time without even realizing it. Maybe, if she could just…

Hana doesn't know what she's doing as she gently grasps Jenny's small hands between her own, but both Jenny and Abbott are silent, watching her with the same sort of interest. All Hana can really think about is this idea that she has a pure heart, that she has an intense longing to see Jenny get better, that such a bright spirit should never be extinguished so early without even really having the chance to live.

It might be her mind playing tricks on her, but the dip of Hana's throat feels warm, and _her_ hands almost seem to be emitting some kind of light – and then Jenny is gasping behind the oxygen mask, eyes sparkling and cheeks alight with vitality. Hana's skin tingles, an awareness of _something_ making her feel wide awake, her chest buoyant and her heart quickening behind her ribs.

"A clumsy first attempt, but successful nonetheless," Abbott remarks and he flies over to land atop Hana's head. "Not nearly refined enough to cure the child, but this should be enough to buy her time. Very well done, Gatekeeper."

Hana doesn't even really know what she's done and thankfully Jenny is too dazzled to make any fuss about it, too livened with renewed energy to do much else than babble excitedly at Hana, talking to quickly that Hana can't even get a word in edgewise. Jenny's cheer is actually so loud that it draws a nurse into the room; at seeing an excitable child who _should_ be tired and reserved, the nurse pauses for a second, and then makes noises about it being time for Jenny to rest. Hana takes the silent direction at face value and, jittery with some unnamable energy, packs up her supplies and says her good-byes to Jenny. She lingers at the door though, listening as the nurse takes note of Jenny's vitals and utters a sound of surprise.

It worked. It actually _worked_.

Hana is so stunned – she could be knocked over with a feather! Hana leans back against the wall, turning wide eyes up to the ceiling. "No way it can be that easy," she says aloud, mostly to herself in the relative privacy of the hallway, which is empty and quiet for the moment.

"I did say it was a clumsy first attempt, Gatekeeper," Abbott reminds her. His negligible weight disappears from the crown of her head as he moves to hover in front of her face. His golden eyes are strange on this new form, strangely expressive and human-like, and right now he is looking at her with blatant concern. "Are you fatigued, Gatekeeper? Such a task should be draining, especially since you are still untrained."

Again with this _training_ stuff! Hana puts that aside and supplies an answer with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm fine. I'm not tired or anything. Honestly, I feel kind of wired."

"Interesting…"

Sensing that Abbott's curiosity is about to rear its head again, Hana gathers her wits, tucks the tiny miracle she might have just performed into the back of her mind, and swiftly moves down to the next room on her tour of the long-term ward. There are more kids to see and more hours left on her volunteer shift. It's all too easy to sink into the task – children are demanding companions, requiring the full span of her attention, and it's almost relaxing to not have to think about any of the strangeness in her life since she's so busy catering to the entertainment of one patient and then the next. And if it so happens that each time she leaves a room she also leaves behind a child in better condition than when she entered, then she doesn't pay that anymore mind than a mild sense of satisfaction.

Abbott, on the other hand, grows increasingly worried as the time passes and Hana visits more children. Maybe he's right to be concerned, since Hana _does_ start to feel a little fatigued, like she's been working for twice as long as she actually has. But she has the notion that Abbott isn't only expressing disquiet about her physical condition; there's something else on his mind, something that he's _not_ saying.

It's odd enough for Abbott that the moment Hana finds herself alone in the locker room after her shift is over, she raises her brows at Abbott expectantly. "Well? What is it? Spit it out already."

If Abbot had been human, he might have been wringing his hands together; as it his, his antenna twitch anxiously. "Gatekeeper…I'm afraid you have been rather rash this afternoon. While it is commendable, of course, that you should show such compassion to these children and gift them with the light of your heart, you are yet untrained…and I fear that you might have drawn undue attention to yourself."

She shakes her head. "What are you talking about?"

"There are things you do not know about being a Gatekeeper."

"That's because you hardly ever answer a direct question, which is super ironic, by the way."

"There are things you do not understand," Abbott insists and his fluttering wings take him to and fro in a motion not unlike pacing.

"Tell me, then," Hana prompts. "What am I missing?"

"It is difficult to explain…"

Hana huffs, hands on her hips. " _Of course_ it is," she mutters. Hana finishes hanging her Candy Striper uniform in the locker, closes the metal door, and shoulders her school bag with an inkling of irritation. Oh, sure, the butterfly can warn her all obscurely, but he can't tell her what she needs to know. How is she supposed to understand if he won't tell her? It's completely bewildering and not in a cute way.

It's really very frustrating!

Hana is nearly stomping out of the locker room, heedless to Abbott warning her to _stay away from shadows, please, Gatekeeper!_

The door closes loudly behind her, trapping Abbott in the room while Hana ventures out into the gloom of a San Francisco twilight.

* * *

 **A/N: Abbott is probably the least informative Guardian in the entire Guild, which is saying something because I have a few other Guardians planned and _boy_ are they super tight-lipped. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	8. seven

**seven**

Avoid shadows? As if! Does Abbott have eyes or not? How does someone _avoid shadows_ after the sun has already set? Not that Hana is exactly thrilled to be out after dark, or anything, but she considers it a necessary evil. And anyway, she carries a flashlight on her for just this purpose, because her own fear of the dark demands that she never walk down a hill with a broken streetlight, which is all too common.

If only her flashlight would stop flickering!

"Gosh!" Hana thumps the palm of her hand against the side of the flashlight where the metal handle flares into the headlight. She clicks her tongue and tries again, but the effort to make the flashlight start working is fruitless. Which doesn't make any sense, because Hana _just_ changed the batteries the other day. Still gripping the flashlight, Hana suppresses a whine of discomfort and resigns herself to a thoroughly tense walk home from the bus stop.

It's only two blocks. What could possibly happen? Unfortunately, a bit of rationalizing doesn't go a long way. Her eyes dart about anxiously, mind conjuring up terrible make-believe creatures out of the shadows between buildings. Hana's pace quickens, shoes patting the sidewalk at shorter intervals. A chill skitters up her spine alongside a sense of disquiet – and Hana firmly tells herself that her limbs feel cold because it's _October_ and that her riled nerves are caused by the perfectly reasonable anxiety of being a young woman alone on a darkened street. All normal responses. It isn't as if this antsy feeling is _new_ ; this is why she has a flashlight, after all, because it makes her feel just a little safer.

Except, there is something awfully, terribly pervasive about the thrill of unease nipping at her heels and her lungs feel _tight_ , like the air is harder to breathe, and it's so _cold_ – and are her eyes playing tricks on her, or does that pocket of darkness below that car look darker than the other shadows near it? And is it _moving_?

Somewhere in the city, a siren wails – a sound loud enough to divert her attention and close enough that she almost misses a low, rumbling reverberation. A growl so deep that she can feel it in her very bones. Stunned dumb, the flashlight slips out of her slackened grip; when it busts against the pavement, it rolls in front of her feet with a thin, weak beam of light. But the light is just enough to cast a contrast on the shape beneath the car – and Hana takes a shaky step backward.

Is it a stray dog? The flashlight dies once again and with a realized sense of foreboding, Hana thinks, _no, definitely not a dog_. No dog Hana has ever seen has eyes like that, two slashes of hellfire red that glower at her as the creature moves, shadows coalescing into something solid and misshapen and rising from beneath an innocuous rust-laden sedan car.

Oh, God.

Hana is dazed – frozen stupid from pure fright, her knees locked and immobile – but her mind, _oh_ , her _mind_ is a furious tumult of thought.

She is seventeen and afraid of the dark and very, very certain that she is about to die. But her mind is a strange thing that keeps circling back to something best left forgotten. There is a thought that keeps her awake at night sometimes, a memory she could never quite suppress – fiery eyes flashing at her through shadows, waiting and watching and hungry. For the longest time, Hana tried to tell herself that this was nothing more than the workings of an overactive imagination belonging to a traumatized child. It would make sense under the circumstances. Hana always _thought_ she saw those burning-coal eyes right after the car tripped down that steep ravine, right after she hit her head, right after the engine started smoking, right after she realized that Mama was struggling to breathe. She had been thirteen and concussed, but even so, the idea that she saw _something_ – that maybe something _caused_ the accident - was so persistent that she's helpless to do anything but be frightened of the dark ever since. Nyctophobia, she has been told, is very common in young children; independently, she has surmised that for teenagers it is more than a little pathetic. She goes to great lengths to keep it hidden from even her closest friends.

Still, she has never _really_ imagined, not even in her wildest dreams, that there actually is something in the shadows. Or that shadows could _become_ something, take on a life of their own, and stand before her as a hulking, growling beast with teeth roughly the size of her head and a sulfuric scent that stings her nose.

Oh, _God_.

Hana quivers, eyes wide and breathless. She is nailed into place, a thing ripe for the picking. The only thought that passes through her head is a nonsensical observation that her shoes are _wrong_ for running away from shadow-monster-things; saddle shoes don't have a whole lot of traction. _I would break an ankle_ , she thinks dimly.

The beast's maw opens wider, great bull-like nose sucking in air greedily, claws scraping against concrete like nails against a chalkboard. It lumbers forward a step and Hana emits a high-pitched squeal, stumbling backward over the sidewalk curb and landing painfully on her tailbone. She scuttles away, scraping her palms and shrinking in on herself with her shoulders near her ears as she cringes against the cold metal of a light post, which flickers weakly, and then dims completely. It's almost as if the beast is sucking all the light out of the street. It certainly feels like it is siphoning away Hana's very _life_.

Hana closes her eyes, bracing herself. She doesn't want to die, but she can't bring herself to stare death in the face, either. She's a coward – a shrinking violet, which is something she has never, ever thought – and in these last moments, she reveals herself to be pathetically weak. Certainly not the kind of person that Abbott and his Guild and their Gates were thinking of, that's for sure. How silly was she to even entertain the thought that she _could_ be chosen for such a deliriously important task! Well, here she is, proving in her final seconds before her certain demise that she is absolutely not the right girl.

But then, a teeny voice chimes in from the back of her head, the long-forgotten survival instincts all humans have personified. _Don't just cower! Do something! Is this really how I want to die_?

No – of course not! But what can she do? What can _Hana_ possibly _do_ against this putrid, wretched creature that manifested from pure shadow? She's only a girl! She might not want to die, but she doesn't have a way to fight back! If she could save herself, then she would most certainly do so!

And then, stunningly, as her terrified heart sits in her throat, her necklace begins to burn, bright and as blinding as the sun, a warmth against her skin –

The necklace!

Desperation drives her to clasp the _hothothot_ pendant in a brittle-boned grasp. _Please, protect me. Please._

The beast snarls – so loud her hair stands on end, but the sound changes abruptly to a tone of agony - and then the terrible, thunderous roar suddenly _stops_. All is quiet, leaving her ears writhing with white noise as the second stretches and she remains miraculously _alive_.

She's alive.

Hana's eyes snap open in shock.

Where once the beast made of shadows stood...there is only ash.

"Oh…God."

Hana breathes out shakily – and the relief mingles with confusion so starkly that her thankful, shocked tears quickly become hysterical laughter. She can't believe it! She's alive and the creature is not and the only explanation is the _necklace_ , which hadn't burnt her hand even though it felt like it in the heat of the moment.

Hana laughs until her ribs hurt, until she can't care the tears streaming down her face might still be from the lingering undercurrent of fear that hasn't quite left her limbs. She sits there, on the sidewalk of a half-darkened street as night settles across the city, until her bottom grows numb enough that she can't feel the ache of her tailbone anymore. Her face is wet and the volume of her laughter has petered off into occasional, nose-clogged giggling. _This_ must be what it feels like to lose one's mind – not the slow spiral she'd feared before, but an abrupt tipping of the scales.

Because _what even_ just happened?

A shadow went _poof_ , that's what!

How truly hysterical! Hana dissolves into a new round of helpless laughter, clutching at her sore sides, careless to how it might appear to any passersby to see a teenage girl laughing to herself, sat on a sidewalk on a quickly-darkening night.

Reality – salvation from the twirl of confusion that spreads through her every inch -breaks through in the form of a flat, disbelieving voice from above. "Hana?"

She tilts her head back, stretching the long line of her neck, and squints up at the hard-planed face staring down at her. The piercing quality of striking blue eyes prompts her lips to spread into a wide smile of delight – she knows this person!

"Logan!" she sings gleefully, pointing a finger up at his grimace. "Logan Brandt!"

He looks almost cautious, moving to kneel at her side with a deep furrow between his dark brows, carelessly setting aside a paper bag stamped with the logo of a nearby convenience store. "Are you hurt?" Logan checks, then visually confirms, placing a hand on her shoulder as he searches for some injury. He scowls openly, apparently displeased at finding her hale and hearty, for the most part. "You aren't hurt. What the hell are you _doing_? You know what time it is? Your folks must be out of their minds."

Hana presses her lips together, trying to contain herself with very little success. "Am I laughing or crying?"

"Both, I think," Logan answers after a beat.

"Oh, good!"

Logan sighs, blue eyes darting away as he rubs at the back of his neck. "Are you alright? You seem…"

"Logan Brandt, you wouldn't believe what happened even if I told you," Hana chirps, only to press her hands over her mouth to try to hide the mania threatening to leak out. "And I don't want to tell you – I can barely believe it myself!"

Logan squints at her, deep in thought. "Was it that guy? Was he bothering you again?" At her lack of answer, he sighs with irritation and elaborates. "Tall, ridiculous white hair, dressed like Father Callaghan put bleach in the washer again."

"You can see Abbott?" Hana wonders, fairly gaping at Logan. She claps her hands together, caught between excitement and admonishment. "Oh, you can _see_ Abbott! You shouldn't be able to!"

"What? He's not invisible," Logan snaps. "Jesus, you did hit your head, didn't you?"

"He's supposed to be invisible, you know. He's a butterfly now, but the rules are still the same," she tells him.

Logan stares. "Christ, you're delirious."

"I turned a shadow to dust!" Hana says, a little defensively.

He narrows his gaze again, and this time presses the back of his hand against her flushed cheek. "You're burning up," he mutters. "No way you can get yourself home."

Logan turns abruptly, reaching out to haul Hana up into a standing position; then without any hesitation, he manages to coax her onto his back and stands, both her school bag and his shopping bag in hand. He makes it seem like carrying Hana is no big deal and, in the state that she's in, she can't find anything so strange about it.

"I _love_ piggyback rides," she declares into the night.

Logan snorts.

And Hana presses her face between his shoulder blades, dizzy and giddy and filled to the brim with the scent of cinnamon and driftwood – safe and secure once more. Her eyes drift shut, all of her hysteria replaced by a warm sense of contentedness.

* * *

 **A/N: How would _you_ react if you made a shadow go _poof_? Completely lose it like Hana? Be stoic and composed? **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


	9. eight

**eight**

Hana wakes up with a cold washcloth on her forehead, no recollection of how she ended up in her bed, and a very irritated white butterfly perched on her nose. All in all, she's befuddled by this state of affairs, having not even the faintest clue of coming home – although she obviously _had_ , considering the softness swaddling her back is obviously _her_ mattress. She has no context for why Abbott's fuzzy ivory body is visibly shivering in agitation, or for why her entire body feels weighed down by lead.

Oh, but she feels _awful_. Positively horrendous. Worse than the stomach flu that kept her out of school for a week last year and Hana had been pretty sure she was actually _dying_ then. She closes her eyes with a weak groan, head pounding.

"Gatekeeper! You've finally awakened!" Abbott sounds nearly elated, if not for the admonishing undercurrent in his tone, which makes him seem more _present_ than usual. "You have been very foolish, Gatekeeper! Very foolish indeed! It is a stroke of luck that you were found – well, either luck or fate, I should think – before your body completely broke down! A Gatekeeper you may be, but you are untrained and have limitations! This is why training is so essential! How do you expect to close the Gate if minor healing and a banishment cause such a lapse in your bodily functions? Why, I should say that we have been blessed by the Universe that you _have_ survived such recklessness – are all humans like this? It's quite baffling and completely illogical…"

Hana tunes out Abbott's lecture, not so much because she wants to but because his voice begins to sound like a dull buzz in her ears and the way he circles her head, oddly reminiscent of pacing, only serves to make her head spin. She understands the gist, though. For some reason, Abbott thinks it's some sort of miracle that she's alive enough to be confused at her circumstances; apparently, she shouldn't be, or at the very least, she should be in worse shape.

What had he said? Something about healing and banishing?

Hana frowns, thinking back _hard_ to the very last thing she remembers, and for some reason all she can recall is a sense of safety and an unmistakable electric blue stare. Logan? Why would she be remembering _Logan_ …?

Oh.

It all comes back slowly, piece by piece, a trickle of recollection that leaves her feeling just as bewildered as before – but without the ignorance of what happened to her. She supposes, in this case, Abbott is right to be lecturing her so thoroughly. Maybe she does need to be trained, after all. She blanches. Hana hadn't known that she could basically kill herself by using the necklace soldered around her neck and she very much regrets using it now if _this_ is how she'll end up feeling.

Frankly, Hana is _reeling_. How had a single day gone from being full of hope, knowing that she could _help_ – really help – those children, to being so harrowing as to actively threaten her life? How can a few hours shift so drastically from joy to terror? She doesn't understand it.

And she really doesn't understand how – or why – Logan Brandt had _once again_ shown up exactly where he needed to be. He's making it something of a habit. Or is it a coincidence? She doesn't know.

"Gatekeeper!" Abbott's tone is almost brusque and snaps her out of the rabbithole her thought process has become. "Are you listening to me? Have you heard anything I've said?"

Hana shrugs. She figures she's heard the most important parts. Right?

Abbott makes a sound resembling an aggravated sigh; she imagines that, if he weren't a butterfly, he would be pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gatekeeper, it is _imperative_ that you listen to the wisdom I am trying to convey to you! You can never hope to close the Gate if you do not first understand the gifts that have been bequeathed to you – and you cannot do that unless you are alive long enough to learn!"

"It's not like I did it on purpose," she mutters defensively, trying not to wince at the faint throb between her ears. Talk about a headache.

"My mentor tried to tell me," Abbott says, mostly to himself. "He said that some Gatekeepers could be quite contrary, but I hadn't imagined – or I hadn't remembered, yes, that must be it. Humans are contradictory creatures, that's what Selim said. Well, he was right!"

Hana coughs from dryness in her throat. All it does is bring Abbott's focus back to her.

"Gatekeepers do not always live very long!" Abbott exclaims, fluttering closer to her face, his golden eyes glinting and far too intelligent for anything insect-shaped to possess, really. "Your safety is paramount, which is why you have a Guardian! Gatekeepers who do not heed their Guardians do not remain Gatekeepers – as you surely learned last night!"

Gosh, but was it only last night? Simultaneously, it feels like only moments ago and an entire lifetime. Hana truly doesn't relish the draggy, timeless vertigo that comes with spontaneously losing consciousness. She'd really rather like to avoid it in the future.

"I'm sorry," she says contritely. "I didn't know what would happen if I went out alone."

 _Because you didn't exactly tell me,_ she doesn't add, even though it's the honest truth. But those kind of blunt, almost accusatory, words aren't something she typically says, and so she doesn't. Besides, whether she'd known or not, it's her own fault for getting in a snit and storming off in the first place; in retrospection, she can see that she'd been in the wrong.

"Yes, well –"

Abbott cuts himself off abruptly, falling as silent as Hana when her bedroom door opens to reveal her grandmother laden with a bamboo tray full of items. From her vantage point on the bed, Hana can see a ceramic tea pot, a few glass jars that she recognizes from the medicine cabinet, and a bowl of what she rightfully assumes is ice water. Grandmother doesn't appear remotely surprised to see that Hana is awake – and she can only wonder if Grandmother heard her talking to herself. Probably, knowing Hana's luck lately.

" _Has your fever gone down?"_ Grandmother asks without preamble.

Hana nods, assuming that she would still be asleep if that weren't the case. " _Yes. I feel much better_."

Grandmother makes a skeptical humming sound as she sets the tray on Hana's bed and sets to work replacing the cold cloth on her forehead; she clicks her tongue after she checks Hana's temperature, then fusses with pouring fragrant, herbal tea, which she passes to Hana alongside a few pills. Hana remains silent, meekly taking the proffered medicine in the hopes of feeling less like an errant child. It doesn't really work.

" _Foolish girl. You should have spoken up if you felt ill, rather than forcing yourself to school and your activities,"_ she chides after a while.

" _I'm sorry for making you worry about me,"_ Hana apologizes, because those words are the ones that are expected and because she really means them. Hana might not really be sick right now – does exhaustion count? – but she understands how her grandmother regards the very possibility. Ever since Hana's mother passed, every sniffle and chill has been met with hostility by Grandmother, so Hana _is_ genuinely sorry for presenting her with undue stress. She has burdened Grandmother unnecessarily.

Grandmother sniffs. " _Lucky that neighbor boy was able to help you,"_ she says, just this side of approving as she fusses with Hana's duvet.

Hana flushes. That's right, she _had_ stolen a piggyback ride home from Logan. How mortifying!

Hana averts her eyes and dutifully drinks her tea and nibbles on a rice cake that sits heavy in her empty belly, all the while going along with Grandmother's busy hands and admonishing mouth. Grandmother extracts a promise from Hana to stay home if she feels sick again. Hana is helpless but to agree, because on the edge of her vision she can see that Abbott is growing impatient, sometimes chiming in agreements or questions about the so-called _healing practices_ Grandmother is applying. By the time Grandmother retreats, leaving Hana to sleep again because her temperature is still a little high, Hana feels slightly less leaden and achy. She closes her eyes, pressing her head back into her pillow, as the door clicks shut, basking in the brief moment of silence, honey and lemon lingering on her tongue.

"Satomi Akimoto is a wise woman," Abbott declares with a sense of self-importance that only aggravates Hana's headache. "You should strive to be more like her. She is cautious, which is something I think you should learn! After all, how do you expect to close the Gate if you aren't cautious? A good Gatekeeper is a cautious Gatekeeper!"

"That's all you ever say," Hana grouses with a pout. "Close the Gate, Hana. Close the Gate. Close the Gate? That isn't as helpful as you seem to think it is! Where is this Gate thing? How do I close it?"

Abbott draws up short, hovering in the air with wide golden eyes. "Ah." He exhales after a beat. "Yes, perhaps I have forgotten a few key pieces of information."

Hana huffs, because _obviously_. "Well? I'm waiting."

"Where would you like me to begin?" Abbott asks, deferring to her judgment for probably the very first time.

Hana blinks, suddenly feeling a little wrong-footed. She thinks neither her nor Abbott are exactly suited to this business they are caught up in; she's too _Hana_ and he's too _Abbott_ , each of them too inexperienced and new in different ways. They should be cutting each other some slack, which is exactly what Hana strives to do.

"Start with explaining what a Gate is," she prompts with an air of patience.

Abbott flutters down to her pillow, seeming to gather himself – much calmer than before, as if imparting information is something he's more comfortable with than, like, regular social interaction.

"The Gate opens every hundred years or so, though it has opened more frequently than that in the past according to Guild historical records," Abbott begins. "The Gate is both physical and metaphysical. The metaphysical you are very well acquainted with, I think. The shadow monsters that you dismantled are the metaphysical manifestations of negative energy from the universe as a whole, given life from humanoid darkness, disturbed ecosystems, or ripples from dying stars that create vast spaces of darkness in the various galaxies. Anytime there is a contribution toward the negative side of the scale, the Gate opens just wide enough to allow one of the manifestations through – and as you are a Gatekeeper, these manifestations are drawn toward you, as you guard the Gate and encompass the Gate with each breath."

"So…I'm the Gate?" Hana wonders.

"Yes and no."

"That's very clear, Abbott!"

"I'm not explaining this well, am I?" Abbott asks rhetorically, antennae twitching. "Hm. As I said before, the Gate is metaphysical, as are all things connected to the Gate. But just like the stone around your neck, the Gate is also physical, it's location so secret that not even Guild records give any indication as to where it is. So, it is best to say that the Gate is both many and singular."

"So…you don't know where the Gate is, even though _I'm_ the Gate but also not the Gate?" Hana checks. "This Gatekeeper stuff is…dreadfully unclear."

"Many in the Guild share that lament," Abbott agrees. "Indeed, I do not know where the Gate is, or when it will open and release a manifestation, or even why the Gate chooses now to open, though there are possibly many different reasons. But you do."

Hana titters nervously, because it sounded like Abbott just implied that _she_ knows more than the entire Guild-whatever combined. "No, I don't," she protests. "I think I would know if I knew something like that!"

"Ah, that is to say, you _will_ know when the other Gatekeepers have answered their calling."

Hana stares, struggling to reconcile this new bit of information. She licks her lips. "Wait, wait. Are you saying there's more people like me?"

"At the very least, there are _two_ – a Gatekeeper for time and space respectively," Abbott says casually. "A trio of Gatekeepers are able to seal the Gate and right the natural balance of the universe –"

"Okay, so then why are you always telling _me_ to close the Gate if I can't even do it by myself?" Hana cuts him off frantically.

"Another faulty explanation on my part, I'm afraid. When I say that you should close the Gate, I mean that you are able to temporarily do this independently as the primary Gatekeeper. But your ability is limited – a stopper in a leak, if you will. With the other Gatekeepers, you will be able to locate the Gate and, ah, lock the door, so to speak."

Right. Right, okay. Hana understands. Kind of. She just has to, like, _poof_ a bunch of shadow monster manifestation things and bide her time until the other two Gatekeepers turn up and then they'll know where the actual Gate is and they can close it. Broken down like this, it actually sounds sort of easy.

Which is her first clue that easy is the very _last_ thing it will be. Especially considering Abbott's earlier warnings about Gatekeepers not exactly being octogenarians on the regular.

Hana sighs. Her headache, somehow, is even worse now. "Where are these other Gatekeepers?"

"I have no idea."

She squints at Abbott. "Does your Guild thing know?"

"They do not yet know."

"Well, do they, the other Gatekeepers, have Guardians, too?"

"Naturally."

"So, do their Guardians know where they are?"

"They have yet to be assigned."

Hana huffs, snapping her palms against the mattress. "I'm starting to think your Guild isn't very useful at all, Abbott!"

Abbott stares at her with those bulbous golden eyes and his wings spread in interest. "How strikingly human of you. Very interesting. You seem…frustrated?"

She wrinkles her nose at him and sighs. "Yes, Abbott. Yes, I'm very frustrated."

Frustrated and scared and _really_ tired all of the sudden.

"Fascinating," Abbott decides.

Hana tries very hard not to feel like a science experiment. Instead, she pins Abbott with a beseeching look. "How long am I going to have to do this by myself? Do you at least know that?"

"Only the Universe knows such things."

Hana wants to _cry_ or _laugh_ or _something_ , but all she does is cast her eyes to the skylights in her ceiling and allow herself to despair – because _oh,_ she really should have expected _that_ answer.

* * *

 **A/N: The Guild knows nothing, Abbott knows nothing, and Hana knows nothing. We're all Jon Snow here!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~Rae**


End file.
